Penumbra 14- The Rightwise King of Camelot
by A. Farnese
Summary: Arthur was expecting his negotiations with King Urien to go poorly, but he hadn't planned on disastrous results. Faced with accusations from a political rival, he begins to doubt his abilities. It's up to Merlin to restore the king's faith.
1. Chapter 1

Merlin ran.

The leaves had begun to turn, their autumnal gold a blur around him as he fought to keep up. The ache of his muscles and the burning in his chest reminded him that, old injuries aside, it had been a long time since he'd tagged along at Arthur's heels carrying saddles or armor and dodging whatever object then-Prince Arthur had to hand.

Perhaps this trip into the forest had been a bad idea.

But Niniane had been so lovely and the early morning air so fine, that even Merlin himself couldn't resist such temptations. Their walk had been placid enough, a pre-dawn jaunt to the river, arriving just in time to see the sun clear the tops of the trees and bathe the area in warm light while the birds burst into full-throated song. Then Niniane stood on her tiptoes to tell him something, her lips just brushing his cheek as she whispered, "Catch me if you can," before she darted away, graceful as a deer. Her racing steps were muted by the soft grass and moss on the forest floor.

He followed as best he could, but he wasn't as fit as he used to be. Nor was he a forest child like Niniane, to dodge through the underbrush as though it was a clear city street. He slowed to a walk, hands on his hips as he fought to catch his breath.

"Emrys!" Her voice came from beyond a wall of leaves. There was no urgency in it, no fear or panic. Just a breathless excitement. Merlin pushed through the leaves and low-hanging branches, emerging out of the shadows into a clearing. Niniane waited for him in the center, shielded from the sunlight by an ancient oak tree. She could have been standing in the brightest noon, though, as brilliant as her smile was. "Come and see what I've found," she said, reaching toward him.

Merlin hesitated for a heartbeat, then walked into the clearing and took her hand. "What did you find?"

"Mistletoe." Her smile brightened, if that was possible. She looked up, and his gaze followed, landing on a cluster of mistletoe in the branches above.

"And now I suppose you want a kiss for your efforts," he said.

"Is that so much to ask?"

"I guess not," Merlin said.

"Then why do I have to search the forest for mistletoe to claim one?" Niniane asked. Her voice was light, but there was a sadness in the depths of her eyes. She took both his hands in hers and kissed the back of each. "You are far too young to be so old, Emrys. You're hardly older than I am, yet you act like a man thrice your age."

"And it feels like only a man thrice my age could have been through all the things that I have. Can you forgive me for that?" Merlin asked.

"I suppose I could." Niniane tugged at the laces of one of his half-gloves the covered the burn scars on his wrists, quickly undoing the knot and loosening them.

"Niniane…" He flinched away, but she wouldn't let him go. As uncomfortable as they had been in the summer heat, the gloves gave him a measure of protection, and not just against the physical things that might further damage his ruined skin. People didn't like being reminded of their own frailties, and yet the disfigured and malformed beings among them did just that. When faced with such differences, even people who were otherwise kind-hearted might react badly, even violently. And so Merlin kept wearing scarves to hide the fading marks on his neck and gloves to hide the scars around his wrists. He was different enough. No need to remind everyone of just how strange he was.

But Niniane didn't flinch when she pulled the glove away from his hand, letting it fall to the ground before she started unlacing the other one. "I know these hands too well to be afraid of their scars," she said. Moments later, she tugged the other glove free and tossed it away as well.

"When we reached your bedside last winter" Niniane said softly, "Iseldir was certain you would die. You were feverish and struggling to breathe. On your wrists, there were places where your skin had peeled away, and I could see muscle and bone. I'd never seen a man burned so extensively who lived longer than a few hours, and yet… You are Emrys. We had to try."

' _Were I any other man, I would have been released from such pain.'_ Merlin kept the bitter thought to himself.

"Iseldir nearly burned himself out during the healing ritual. It took him a fortnight to recover his strength. When we finished, I bandaged this hand myself," Niniane said. She ran her fingertips down his arm, tracing the lines of veins and tendons until she reached his hands, folding his fingers around hers, one by one. "Blaise had straightened it as best he could, but his arts were limited to the physical world. Without magic, you wouldn't be able to use this hand."

"What are you trying to say?" He tried and failed to keep a bitter residue out of his voice.

She smiled up at him, repaying his bitterness with her own sweetness. "Your magic is healing you, Emrys. Even now. It's why your sight returned, and why your scars are fading." With her thumb, Niniane drew an invisible line just below his elbow. "Last winter, the scars were up to here. Since then, they've retreated all the way down to here." She moved her fingers toward a point much closer to his wrist.

"I hadn't really noticed," Merlin said.

"You wouldn't. It's happened so gradually I doubt anyone else has noticed, either. Nor would they, unless someone pointed it out to them. I'd be willing to bet that the scars on your throat are fading, too." Niniane reached up and tugged at the end of his scarf, freeing it from the hastily tied knot he'd left it in, and unwinding it from around his neck. She let it fall to the ground, too. "See?" She tilted his head up with a finger under his chin. "I was right about that, too. Just a few marks here and there."

A chill ran down Merlin's spine as she traced the lines on his throat. "I can't see that, but I'll take your word for it." He caught her hand and kissed her fingers, wrapping his other arm around her waist. She melted against him, nestling her head against his chest to listen to his heartbeat.

' _I don't want you to go to Rheged.'_ Her voice sounded in his head, full of fear that she was trying to keep keep hidden from him.

' _I'm not going to Rheged,'_ Merlin replied. _'Only to the border. We're going to negotiate with Urien, not fight him.'_

' _Everyone knows that's not what will happen. Urien's a treacherous man. He won't keep the peace, even if he's promised to.'_ Niniane pulled away from him just enough to look into Merlin's eyes. _'Promise me you'll come back.'_

' _I promise.'_ He kissed her brow and hugged her close again. "I'm not meant to be part of the fighting, even if there is any."

"You weren't meant to be involved in the battle at Blackheath, either."

"Have you Seen something I haven't?" Merlin asked. His own dreams had been quiet enough of late, filled with visions of gray forests and the scent of mouldering earth when they showed him anything. He shoved away the memory of his summertime vision, where he had been falling, perhaps, or dying, and Niniane was looking down at him, her eyes full of fear.

"No," she said. "I haven't Seen anything. But that doesn't mean I can't be afraid of the future."

"You don't need to be. I'll be fine, I promise." He leaned down to kiss her on the lips this time, as though that would seal his vow and render it inviolable. When they parted at last, her hands were tangled in his hair, and his were at the laces of her bodice. They looked at each other, and laughed, and kissed again.

The rest of the morning seemed to last forever, and yet it was altogether too short a time.

* * *

"I don't want you to go."

Arthur kissed Guinevere's brow, his hand drifting to her waist as he pulled her just a little closer. "I don't want to go, either. I would much rather stay here with my beautiful wife. In fact, I'd like to stay in this very spot with her and just let the rest of the world pass us by for a while. Do you think she would agree?"

"Hmm…" Guinevere thought it over for a moment, then pulled the covers up a little more over both of them. "Perhaps for a little while, but your beautiful wife doesn't want to be seen as lazy. We'll have to face the world at some point." She jabbed a finger into the ticklish spot just under Arthur's ribs. He tried to shy away, but with one arm still wrapped around her, the effort was wasted. He settled on catching the offending hand in his and kissing her slender fingers one by one.

"There's something wrong with this hand, you know," Arthur said.

Guinevere raised an eyebrow at that. "There's nothing wrong with my hands."

"Yes, there is. The left one's perfectly lovely. Especially with the wedding ring on it," Arthur said, smiling. "But your right hand is a bit bare. Let me fix that for you." He reached toward the bedside table and the ring that sat upon it- the signet ring of Camelot. "There," he said as he slipped it on her forefinger, "That's better, isn't it?"

"Arthur…" There was no denying the trepidation on her face, or the worry in her eyes.

"I don't do this to flatter you, Guinevere," he said. "While I'm away, you will be acting as Regent of Camelot in my stead. This ring is the symbol of your authority."

Her lower lip trembled, but Guinevere mastered herself before her emotions spilled over. "I'm not ready for this. How can I be? Six months ago, I was nothing more than a simple servant."

Arthur smiled and brushed her hair away from her eyes. "You may have been a servant, but you were never simple."

That brought the sparkle back into her eyes, even if she didn't smile in return. "But will the people trust in my authority? Will they see me as anything but the girl who lived among them in the lower town?"

"You will have the council to back you up, along with Percival and the other knights who are staying behind. And most importantly, you have your own good sense to guide you," Arthur said. He sighed and twined his fingers around hers, breathing in the lavender scent that always hung about her. "My father believed that nobility grants a person the ability to rule, but I don't agree. If it were a choice between nobility and and wisdom, I would choose wisdom to guide the kingdom every time."

Guinevere brushed a kiss along his cheek. "Perhaps you should name Merlin as your regent, then." She chuckled and slipped out of Arthur's grasp and past the bed's gauzy curtains. He watched her move, ghost-like as she pulled on a shift before beginning the long task of taming her curls.

This was his favorite time of the day, just after dawn when he was still foggy from sleep and the only thing on his mind was watching Guinevere, inordinately beautiful in the simplicity of her routines as she prepared for the day before her ladies descended on her like a flock of songbirds. In those precious few minutes, they could exist merely as husband and wife, and not as king and queen. It was a pity that such moments passed by so quickly.

Arthur scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair before he rolled out of out of bed and tugged on his trousers. "Name Merlin as my regent, you say? Do you want me to set the whole of Camelot on its ear?"

Guinevere laughed. "Can you imagine the looks on the faces of everyone at court if you actually did it?"

"Or the look on Merlin's? It might actually be worth it." He closed the gap between them and wrapped his arms around Guinevere's waist.

She set her comb aside, a pensive look on her face as she turned to look up at him. "Now that I think about it, though, maybe it wouldn't be so funny now that he's focused on this world again, instead of halfway looking into the next."

"Perhaps you're right about that."

"I usually am, where your silly ideas are concerned," she said.

" _My_ silly idea? You're the one who suggested it," Arthur replied, tapping the tip of her nose for emphasis.

"Did I? I hardly noticed," she said, dodging his hand to plant a quick kiss on his lips before settling against him and resting her head over his heart. Arthur couldn't help but wind his fingers into her hair. "You're leaving at noon, aren't you?"

"That's the plan," Arthur said. "The men have been preparing for days, but you know how plans never quite work out the way you expect them to. I'll probably be looking over some bit of construction in the lower town and some very important thing will happen, and the next thing you know the army will leave without me and I"ll have to run to catch up. It will be terribly undignified."

Guinevere huffed a laugh. "You're trying to make me feel better about all this, aren't you?"

"Yes. Is it working?"

"Maybe a little," she said. "Promise me you'll come home safely?"

"I promise," Arthur said. He cupped her face in his hands and just stared into her eyes. "There isn't a power in the world that could stop me from coming back to you."


	2. Chapter 2

Guinevere hated good-byes. She hated saying them, hated not being able to say them. All in all, she just loathed being separated from her loved ones. Too many of them had gone away and never come back to her, while others had come back changed. In Elyan and Arthur's cases, it had been for the good. The best qualities had come to the fore and been strengthened- particularly after Morgana's failed coup. Merlin had almost seemed ethereal when he returned from his ordeals, like he had one foot in the material world and the other set in a different plane altogether. She hadn't yet decided if she liked those changes or if she would ever get used to them.

As for Morgana….

Guinevere shook her head and tried not to think about Morgana. It had been months since anyone had spotted her. It was best not to invite trouble if there was none to be had. Arthur and the others were riding into enough danger without adding Morgana to the mix.

She let out a shaky breath and turned her attention back to the crowded courtyard below. Everywhere, people were bustling about, getting the last supplies packed up and horses saddled. Soldiers' chainmail glittered in the late morning sunlight, and most of the scene's color came from the brightly colored gowns the women wore as they bid husbands and sweethearts farewell. Guinevere tried not to think about how many of those farewells would be forever.

A couple off to one side caught her gaze, though hardly anyone else seemed to have noticed them, two ghost-grey figures in a field of crimson cloaks. They held their heads close to each other like they were afraid those around them would hear their secrets. If there was a couple in the world who looked more content than Merlin and Niniane did, Guinevere had yet to see them.

"She's good for him, isn't she?"

Guinevere jumped, then tried not to show how much Percival had startled her. "Yes, she is," she agreed, half-laughing. "She makes him smile. It's hard to ask for more than that. Not after the past year."

"It has been long," Percival said. "But I'm starting to wonder if someone put a love potion in the water. You and Arthur are married, Gwaine and Linnet are posting the banns. Now Merlin and Niniane are doing whatever it is that pagans do when they're head over heels for each other."

"I think they get married just like everyone else does," Guinevere said.

"Really?" Percival furrowed his brow. "That's not what Gwaine said that Linnet said that Niniane said. Apparently she said that-"

Guinevere cut him off with a wave. "You knights gossip worse than old farmwives. If Niniane has a fault, it's that she's too prone to speaking her mind, and too flippant when she does it. There's a reason I don't bring her to court very often. Can you imagine the trouble she'd get into if she mouthed off to, say, Lord Pynell? She hasn't learned to hold her tongue like Merlin has."

"I don't think there's a man in the world who can hold his tongue like Merlin does. It's like he goes out in public and forgets how to talk." Percival idly rubbed his shoulder. It had healed quickly in the three weeks since the fire- Guinevere suspected that Merlin was helping the process along with a bit of magic now and then- but Gaius had declared that the big knight needed rest, not combat, to finish healing.

Arthur had soothed the blow to Percival's pride by laying a charge upon him: _'You must protect Guinevere,'_ he said. _'There will be those who would view my absence as their best chance to kidnap or harm the queen. It is your duty to guard against these threats.'_ Elyan had told Percival much the same, though not in such noble terms. And so even in Arthur's absence, she felt as safe as always.

Perhaps Merlin, too, had seen fit to lay some sort of protective enchantment over her. Would she have noticed it he had? "It's not that he forgets how to talk, it's just that he's sensitive to how people perceive him. Or how he thinks they perceive him. He speaks his mind plainly enough in private."

Merlin looked up at them just then, as though he knew they were talking about him. Perhaps he did. He always seemed to be aware of such things. She shivered and tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders, as though it were simply the cool morning air and not her friend's strangeness that chilled her.

For his own part, Merlin just smiled and nodded at something behind her. Guinevere turned to find Arthur standing there with the look on his face he always had when she discovered he had been watching her without her knowing it. She flushed and bobbed a curtsey. "My lord."

Arthur caught her hands and raised them to his lips, giving her a half-bow. "My lady."

Cheers rose across the courtyard at Arthur's appearance. He acknowledged them with a wave, then turned back to Guinevere. "I leave Camelot in your capable hands. If I should fall in battle, you will rule the kingdom in my stead. The council has sworn to acknowledge you as queen regnant, and the knights will follow their example." He spoke loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear, ensuring that the news would spread throughout the city and make his wishes known to all.

Guinevere fought to keep her voice from trembling as his talk of death and inheritance. She unwrapped a slender blue ribbon from around her hand. It was the same one she had given him just over a year ago before fleeing from Uther's wrath. "Take this, as a token of my love. May God keep you safe and bring you home to me unharmed." She tied the ribbon around his wrist.

"I will pray for it nightly," Arthur said, and kissed her hands again. "Good-bye, my love," he said softly, because those words were for her alone, and not for those around them.

He stepped away, then, heading down the steps toward the throng, pausing long enough to whisper a few words into Merlin's ear. The sorcerer nodded and stepped back. Niniane had already vanished like a morning dream. The crowd converged on him then, bright moths to an even brighter flame. Though she couldn't see his face or hear what he was saying, Guinevere knew that Arthur was smiling at all of them, offering encouraging words to anyone who could hear him before they began falling into formation. The knights and soldiers should already have been lined up, but Guinevere couldn't blame them for it. She wasn't the only one who felt more alive in Arthur's presence.

Guinevere wanted to race after him, to go with him to the mummer's farce these negotiations would be. She could wield a sword, after all, and was clever enough to argue her case amongst the kingdom's learned men. But she held herself back and stood tall like the calm, composed Queen of Camelot she was meant to be. Her fingers brushed over the signet ring on her forefinger, reminding her of her duty.

But it was a long time before she moved away, her eyes fixed on Arthur until he disappeared from view.


	3. Chapter 3

It seemed to Arthur that, despite four days' worth of clouds, mud, and a clinging mist, Merlin hadn't quite stopped smiling. Not that he was going to complain about it. An upbeat, daydreaming Merlin was better than a hunched over and gloomy Merlin after all, and it wasn't as though he was as unrelentingly cheerful as Gwaine was. Merlin was pleasant to be around. Half the time, Arthur just wanted to punch Gwaine in the face to get him to shut up about his upcoming nuptials.

It was always 'Linnet this, and Linnet that' these days, like Gwaine didn't have anything better to talk about than the color of her eyes or the funny way her lips twisted when she was deep in thought. Arthur couldn't remember being so vocal about how he felt for Guinevere, but then, there wasn't a man in Camelot who liked to talk as much as Gwaine did.

They were all just going to have to endure.

Gwaine's voice drifted toward him again. Arthur turned in the saddle to see who the brash knight's victim was this time. Poor Lancelot, riding just ahead of Gwaine, had a long-suffering look on his face and a slump to his shoulders. Arthur threw him a smirk and shrugged before turning back around.

"Think he'll stop jabbering on about Linnet once they're married?" Merlin asked.

"Probably not," Arthur replied. "He'll be obsessed for a while after the wedding, then they'll develop a daily routine and we'll start to hear him complain about how her hair ends up in his mouth while he sleeps, and she'll rant about his smelly socks." He tugged the hood of his cloak a bit lower over his head. The heavy mist that hung over the land was turning into a light rain. "When it comes right down to it, we're doomed."

"Hmm." It looked like Merlin had forgotten what they were talking about. His gaze swept over the fog-shrouded trees away in the valley below. A soft smile pulled at his lips. He sat up straighter in the saddle and his eyes unfocused like he was looking back into memory.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Do I want to know what's going through your head right now?"

"What?" Merlin looked back at him, all wide-eyed innocence. His smile spread wider. "Sorry. Just thinking."

"About what?"

"Oak trees."

"Oak trees?" Arthur asked. It wasn't the answer he had expected.

Merlin's grin widened. "Yes. Oak trees."

Arthur stared at him for a beat, noting the sparkle in Merlin's eyes, despite the gloom and the rain. His imagination conjured up uncomfortable visions of Merlin, Niniane, forest clearings, and the sorts of things that went on between men and women in love. He shook his head to try to clear it away, turning his thoughts to Guinevere instead, which only became images of himself and Guinevere in the woods, and…

He felt his cheeks flush and was glad for the hood hanging over his face. Not that it hindered Merlin's laughter, because it always seemed that Merlin could sense what he was thinking. And since his thoughts wouldn't wander away from their licentious path, Arthur had to admit that he was just as stupid about Guinevere as Gwaine was about Linnet. "We're all idiots," he grumbled.

"There are worse things to be stupid about than the woman you love," Merlin said softly.

Arthur glanced out from under his hood. Merlin was looking at him, a wry, knowing smile on his face. "I suppose you're right about that," Arthur said.

"Sire!" Leon's voice drove out all thoughts of Guinevere, Linnet, or any other woman who might have been lurking about. The mud-spattered knight rode up alongside Arthur. His hood was thrown back, and his hair was plastered against his face. "The scouts have reported back. Urien is lining his men up, just as you predicted. About a third of his men are encamped with him on the valley floor. They're backed up against the ridge, and most of the rest are behind them on the ridge itself, or waiting at the edge of the forest."

"And their numbers?"

"Roughly equal to ours, if the count's accurate. We'll be evenly matched if it comes to a fight," Leon said.

"Which it most likely will," Arthur said. "What about their reserves? Is Urien holding any men well away from their current lines, to surprise us later on?"

"Not likely," Leon said. He threw an apologetic look toward Merlin. "The closest village is Ealdor, and that's another few days' march away." The sorcerer's wince was palpable, even from an arm's length away. "They wouldn't have the resources to feed and house even a small part of an army. Keeping them provisioned out in the highlands in autumn would be difficult at best."

"But not impossible," Arthur said. "Send out the second scouting group. I want to be absolutely certain of Urien's numbers. Merlin." He glanced over at the sorcerer to find that he was staring northward. Toward Ealdor and the ruins of his childhood home. "Merlin?"

He started and snapped his head around to look at Arthur. "What?"

Arthur opened his mouth to say something, then stopped. There was a mournful look in Merlin's eyes that he couldn't quite hide. "Have you seen anything with whatever magic it is you can use here?"

"You mean, have I seen something of the future or of Urien's plans?" Merlin asked. Arthur nodded. "No. I've tried to scry him a time or two, but it was just like staring at a brick wall. I couldn't find anything."

"Is Morgana here, then?" Leon asked.

Merlin shrugged. "Not that I've seen. But I couldn't find her at Blackheath, either."

"Right," Arthur said. He spared a glance for the land around them. The road was dropping toward the valley floor. Across the narrow plain, a ridge of jagged hills guarded the way up into the mountains "We're almost there. Ride back to the healers' wagons, then, and start preparing them to camp. I want them set up before nightfall. And keep a weather eye out for anything strange, and tell me if you find anything. I don't like surprises in battle."

"Does anyone like surprises in battle?" Merlin smirked, but there was a grateful light in his eyes as he tugged Altair around and nudged the horse into a trot, disappearing into the mist and rain like a ghost.

"Is it just me, or was he relieved to go?" Leon asked.

"Ealdor's not so far away," Arthur said. "Would you want to be reminded of the time your mother burned to death, and magic forced you to experience it along with her?"

Leon winced. "I suppose that would be more than a little upsetting."

"Yes. So I'll give him plenty to do to keep his mind off it," Arthur said. "With any luck, we'll all be too busy with negotiations to think about anything else. Now let's get moving. The sooner we reach the end of this road, the sooner we can set up camp. Whether we fight or talk in the morning, we'll all need our rest."


	4. Chapter 4

There were worse places in the world to be than King Arthur's war camp, Gareth decided as he picked his way through the mud. He had been in those worse places, too, all of them with his great-uncle the Sarrum, the now-dead king of Amata. Here, despite the rain and the endless mists, he at least had a hot meal and a warm bed to look forward to at the end of the day.

Now that evening was upon them and he had the horses- Canrith, Altair, and his own Boreas- bedded down for the night, he could declare his own chores to be finished, make sure Arthur had all he needed, and collapse in his own bed.

"Why must you always walk so fast?"

Gareth glanced back, nearly missing Stilicho's dark figure in the gloom. "It's an effect of being tall," he laughed. "If you'd just grow a little, you wouldn't have trouble keeping up." Their height was a point he liked to tease Stilicho about. Gareth had shot up a good six inches or more since last winter, and while he was still gangly and awkward, he was getting closer to being able to look Arthur straight in the eye.

"I could not grow enough to catch up with you, Gareth," Stilicho said. "You Northmen are all giants." Gareth always did when Stilicho said his name, rolling the 'R', and scuttling the 'th' altogether. _'Gar-r-r-ret'_. It wasn't the strangest thing the boy's rolling accent did to the common tongue, but it was Gareth's favorite.

"We're not Northmen, Stil," he said. "They come from across the sea, and are even taller than us. More like Percival- or bigger- if you believe the stories people tell." Gareth waited until the other boy had caught up to him, wincing when he heard Stil's teeth chatter. He would have to ask Arthur for a warmer cloak for his friend. It wasn't as though Blaise kept him and Aimery- his other apprentice- in rags, but Stil was from a long way south, where summer never seemed to leave the land and snow was a once-in-a-lifetime curiosity.

"They must be as tall as trees if they are taller than you lot," Stil said.

"We'll have to be on the lookout for giants then, if you believe what Merlin says."

Stil threw a curious glance up at him. "What does Merlin say?"

"I thought you would have heard. You and Blaise spend about as much time with Merlin as I do."

Stil rolled his eyes, as though Gareth had said something terribly foolish. Which was possible. He counted himself as a clever sort of person, but Stil was far beyond him when it came to book learning and the ways of the world. The consequences of being apprenticed to a physician, Gareth supposed, and of having been a slave before that. "When Blaise and Gaius are together, the only talk is medicine, herbs, and healing. That is when I see Merlin. But you? You see him when he is with Arthur. Then, the talk is all politics and the future." He slipped in the mud, but Gareth caught his arm before he could fall.

"What you hear," Stil went on when he had regained his balance, "is not what the rest of the people of Camelot hear. Where you are, is special. In another land, you would be locked away in the dungeons to hold your Lord Father to his word. But Arthur made you a squire, keeps you with him. You could be spying on him for all he knows."

"What would I report back?" Gareth scoffed. "That Arthur had lamb stew the night before we left, and that I had to replace a buckle on his saddle a fortnight ago?"

Stil gave a him a withering glance, though its effect was dulled by the water drops that dripped from the edge of his cloak onto his nose. "There are days when you are clever, Gareth of Amata. This is not one of them. You hear more secrets than is good for you. You should be more careful."

"Now you sound like Merlin," Gareth laughed.

"I shall take that as a compliment," Stil said. His dour look brightened, and the sparkle returned to his eyes. "Merlin is a very wise man."

"Merlin is a very strange man," Gareth said, earning himself another eyeroll from Stil.

"I once read about an ancient philosopher who said that there is no wisdom without a bit of madness. Normal men are normal because their minds run along the same tracks as everyone else's. A wise man takes a path that carries him to great heights and lets him see the lands far beyond. The normal man calls him strange for doing so."

Gareth smiled. "Now you definitely sound like Merlin. But I promise I won't laugh at you, even if you take a path that leads you straight for a cliff."

"And I suppose you would let me fall off this cliff?"

"Never," Gareth grinned wider. "Good friends are in short supply." He ruffled Stil's hair and dodged the blow he aimed at Gareth's gut.

"Gareth!"

They both turned to find the source of the call. It was a page boy, slipping and sliding toward them at what would have been an all-out run if the ground wasn't a vast mudpit. "His Majesty is looking for you! And you, too, Stilicho. Blaise, I mean, is looking for you. Not the king. I mean, His Majesty is looking for Gareth, and Blaise is looking for Stilicho," the boy puffed as he fought to catch his breath."

"Is Arthur in his chambers?" Gareth asked.

"Yes, in his tent. In his chambers in his tent. So is Blaise," the boy said, then shook his head. "The king is in his tent, and Blaise is with Gaius in the healers' tent. Right?"

"If you say so," Gareth shrugged. He looked at Stil over the boy's head, but Stil looked just as baffled. Gareth wouldn't be surprised to discover this particular page working in the kitchens someday soon. "Duty calls, then," he said to Stil. "I would say, 'I'll see you tomorrow', but…"

"If you are to be in battle tomorrow, I don't want to see you. Not in the healers' tent, anyway," Stil agreed. "Stay safe, my friend."

"You, too," Gareth said. He clapped Stil on the shoulder, and then they parted ways. Stil headed for the healers' tent at the back of the camp, while Gareth jogged toward Arthur's tent toward the front.

There was an apology on his lips when he burst through the entrance of the tent, but one stern look and a gesture from Arthur froze him in place and silenced him. He would have stopped anyway, once he saw what Arthur was watching. After all, it wasn't every day that one walked in on a sorcerer casting a spell.

Merlin sat cross-legged on his pallet. His eyes were mostly closed, the eyelids fluttering and eerie with the golden glow of magic shining behind them. A palm-sized silver disk hung in the air between Merlin's hands, suspended by whatever spell the sorcerer was spinning. His lips were moving, whispering quicksilver words Gareth wouldn't have understood, even if he could hear them properly.

It wasn't like he hadn't seen Merlin's magic before, but those had been minor spells- lighting candles or pulling books off high shelves. As for the fire that had destroyed the Sarrum's army at Blackheath, well. Gareth hadn't _seen_ that, hadn't watched it with his own eyes. He'd been too busy finding a place to hide…

He thought he was used to magic and its weirdness, but the hairs on the back of his neck still rose, and his skin felt like it wanted to crawl off his body and go right back outside. But if Arthur could stand there, solid as any rock despite the fact that his eyes were growing ever wider, then Gareth could do the same.

The disk's solid glow turned unsteady. _'No, not unsteady..._ ' It pulsed. Like a heartbeat speeding up. The glow strengthened, flaring higher and higher until it burst, burning bright as the sun before it died, plunging the room into darkness.

When Gareth's eyes adjusted to the dim, Arthur was already at Merlin's side, and hand on the sorcerer's shoulder to keep him from keeling over. "Are you alright?" Arthur asked.

"'m fine," Merlin mumbled. He didn't convince either Arthur or Gareth.

"You always say that. And I never believe you," Arthur said. He gestured for Gareth to bring him a cup of water from the pitcher on the table. "Why is that, do you think?"

"I'm convincing. I'm a good liar." Merlin finally opened his eyes. His gaze was glassy at first, but he blinked them back into focus soon enough, though he missed Arthur's shoulders sag with relief.

"You haven't been a good liar for a long time. Not since I got that promise from you," Arthur said. He pressed the cup of water into Merlin's hands and bade the sorcerer to drink.

Merlin smirked. "I guess there are some extenuating circumstances, then," he said between sips of water. "And before you ask, I didn't See anything. That is, I didn't See anything specific. But I don't think Morgana's here."

"How can that be? Who else is powerful enough to keep you from…" Arthur paused as he searched for the right words, but none were forthcoming. "From doing whatever it was that you were doing?"

"Whatever it was I was doing?" Merlin rolled his eyes. "I was scrying. And I don't think Morgana's here because the spell… it just doesn't feel like her. Not quite." A smile tugged at his lips at Arthur's confused look. "I suppose she could have anchored the spell within a living host. Someone close to her. Probably Accolon, her betrothed. That's how Morgause put everyone in Camelot to sleep when she woke the Knights of Medhir."

"And the only way to end the spell is to kill the host."

Merlin winced, but nodded.

Gareth looked back and forth between them, hoping some explanation for their sudden dour behavior would come along, but none did.

Arthur took a long breath. "Well," he said, forcing a false cheer into his voice. "It wouldn't be very civilised of me to walk into the negotiations tomorrow and behead Urien's son for no apparent reason."

"Not very civilized, no." Merlin raised an eyebrow, as though he couldn't quite figure out if Arthur was joking, or if he was being serious. Gareth wasn't sure either. He chose the 'joking' option. It seemed less damning.

"That option's off the table, then," Arthur said. He gave Merlin a disarming smile and clapped his shoulder. "We'll just have to keep a weather eye out, then. Surely that spell can't last forever. We just need to be prepared. And that is what the knights of Camelot are good at." Arthur's voice softened, "In the meantime, get some rest. Gareth?"

He jumped. He'd thought they'd forgotten about him. "Sire?"

"Come with me. There's still a lot of work to be done before tomorrow. It's going to be a long night."

* * *

"Gareth." The urgency in Merlin's voice washed away the last bits of fog from Gareth's mind. He sat up, blinking into the pre-dawn dimness. "Wake Arthur and prepare his armor, then get your own on. Do it now."

"What? Why? What's wrong?" Gareth barely managed to untangle the blankets before he was up and reaching for his boots.

"Something's about to happen. I don't know what yet," Merlin said. He was all in gray again, a forbidding shadow in the gloom. "Go get Arthur. Now!" He snapped his fingers and every candle, lantern, and brazier in the tent burst into light.

It startled Gareth into action. He had a hand on the curtain to Arthur's room before he realized he was moving. "Sire?"

Arthur was still asleep, though from the guttered candle on the bedside table and the sheaf's worth of parchment scattered across the covers, he had probably worked long into the night. It seemed a shame to wake him so soon. But there had been death in Merlin's eyes, and Gareth didn't dare cross him. "Sire?" he said louder.

"Hmmmm…?"

"Merlin told me to wake you, sire, and to get you into your armor."

That woke Arthur better than any bucket of ice water could have done. "What's happened?" He flipped the covers aside, sending parchments flying.

"I don't know. He didn't know, either. He just told me to wake you."

Arthur sighed and rubbed a hand over his face and through his hairs. "These visions of yours could use some clarification, Merlin," he grumbled as he flipped the covers aside, sending parchment flying.

Gareth didn't wait to be told. He fetched the armor's padding and brought it into Arthur's room and got the king into his armor faster than usual, the anticipation and dread of the unknown lending Gareth an efficiency that was absent from the normal routine.

He was about to leave, to struggle into his armor on his own- surely the King of Camelot had more important things to deal with than a lowly squire's problems- when Arthur stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Let's get you ready. Whatever's about to happen, you need to be prepared. Your safety is well worth a little time."

Gareth wouldn't have known what to say if he could speak at all. A dumbfounded, 'thank you', perhaps, followed by a stream of gibberish. Fortunately, his tongue seemed to be glued to the roof of his mouth, and all he did was nod.

His armor was a motley collection compared to Arthur's. There had seemed little point in having a new set forged for him when he was in the midst of a growth spurt, and so they had collected bits and pieces from the armory that fit him well enough. After they were adjusted, cleaned, and polished, he looked almost like a knight himself, save for the Amatan heraldry that marked him as different. Until now, he'd only ever needed on the practice field where it had protected him from Gwaine's speed, Lancelot's relentlessness, or Percival's strength. But now, when he might be facing his first real battle, it felt like it was made of parchment and sticks.

"I would tell you that your first battle is the worst, or that you'll learn not to be afraid when it's all said and done," Arthur said as he tightened the pauldron's straps. "But that would be a lie. Fear always walks with you, telling you that you're unworthy or you'll fail in your endeavors. That never leaves you. We're all afraid to go into battle. Even I fear what will happen. But remember this: no matter what enemy you face, no matter your failures, fear is an enemy you can always defeat as long as you hold true to those values that brought you here in the first place."

"But you brought me here," Gareth said, cursing how small his voice seemed.

"I brought you along. Your loyalty keeps you here." Arthur grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, then. Let's go see what's troubling Merlin."

They found Merlin in the gloom at the edge of the camp, a gray figure no more substantial than the mist around him until they were almost close enough to touch him. He stood perfectly still, his eyes closed, arms at his sides with his fingers stretched wide and his palms facing out. Lancelot stood watch over him.

All around was eerily quiet, the sounds of the camp dampened by the fog. The only sound from without were the occasional screeching of crows and the wind whispering through the trees.

"What's going on?" Arthur whispered needlessly. The air was too thick to let sound travel far.

"I'm not sure," Lancelot whispered back. "I saw him heading this way, so I followed. If he's looking for something, he hasn't found it yet."

"Whatever it is, it's had him twisted up in knots for the past day. He says Morgana's not here, but-" Arthur broke off and shrugged. "What do I know about all this?"

"About as much as I do," Lancelot said. "I'm just trying not to look like a complete idiot, standing here staring at the fog."

"That makes two of us," Arthur said, smirking.

Merlin gasped. His eyes opened, already glowing with magic. He raised a hand as he spoke, uttering harsh words of power as he gestured toward the mountains. A wind rose behind them, strong enough to dispel the mists so they could see to the edge of the forest. Merlin dropped his hand to his side and took a step back. "Something's happening."

"I can see that," Arthur said. "But what?"

Gareth was the first to hear it, his youthful hearing giving him an advantage over the others. From the southern ridgeline, there came a buzzing like the hum of a massive hive of bees. "What's that noise?" he said as he squinted at the mist, trying to figure out what the sound was.

Merlin followed his gaze, his eyes glowing gold again as he used magic to see what the others could not. He cried out suddenly, jerking his hand toward the mist, summoning his power with instinct and desperation as the first arrows came into view, rushing toward them and the camp beyond.

A blast of wind rushed out of nowhere, nearly staggering Gareth as he watched the oncoming arrows- a storm of them, enough to have blotted out the sun, if the sun hadn't already been hidden by clouds. The wind rose fast to meet the arrows, throwing them off course so they fell harmlessly onto the empty ground in front of the forest.

"Fall back!" Arthur shouted. He grabbed the back of Merlin's coat and hauled the sorcerer towards the camp. Lancelot and Gareth were quick to follow. "They never meant to negotiate, only to attack."

' _And we're not ready for it.'_ Gareth wisely kept that remark to himself as they made it into the boundaries of the camp, even as the first battle cries rose from the forest.

"TO ARMS!" Arthur bellowed to a camp that was still half asleep. Answering calls sounded around the camp, rousing the men who were still asleep, summoning the men to meet an enemy that was nearly upon them.

Arthur had come here expecting a battle. Now he was going to get it.


	5. Chapter 5

There was a short list of things Gwaine didn't mind being awakened by. First on that list was Linnet's smiling face. If he had been given time to think, he might have been able to come up with a second listing that would probably also have to do with Linnet. And while he didn't have time to think just then, he knew being woken up by a call to arms would not be on the list.

He struggled out of the tangle of his blankets and grabbed his boots, shoving them onto his feet before grabbing his chainmail. It was a pity Lancelot wasn't there to help him get all his armor on. But he'd fought battles with less, and a hastily donned chain shirt was better than nothing. With his sword at his waist and a sheathed dagger shoved into one boot, Gwaine stepped out into a scene of sheer madness.

It wasn't quite dawn yet- if dawn came to such dismal days- but the camp was already overrun by Rheged's soldiers. There were far too few red-clad men to counter them.

' _Hell of a way to start the morning..'_

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and swept his sword up, countering the blow that would have taken him across the face. He shoved his opponent's blade aside before mimicking his attack, slashing his throat with a half-aimed strike and leaving him to fall, choking, into the mud.

He let his thoughts fall away then. The others might tease him about his supposed mindlessness, but the knack had saved him more than once.

' _Don't think about Linnet..."_

He couldn't let himself think. He could only act. Let instinct be his guide, not reason. There was no place for reason on the battlefield.

Everything sounded like he'd been shoved underwater, like it was all moving terribly slowly while he was flying, quicksilver movements keeping him just out of reach of blades and shields as he struggled to keep from falling into the mud. _Parry, dodge, strike…_ None of it was the pretty sort of duel dancing young squires aspired to. Just the inelegant butchery of the battlefield. And god, how he hated it.

Sound quickened. He regained himself in a moment, as he was wrenching his sword out of yet another body, praying the steel wouldn't snap when it caught on the poor bastard's armor, and it didn't. He pulled it free and spun about on one knee, bringing the sword around in a low arc.

Speed and training kept him from gutting Lancelot. The other knight offered him a glare that said, _'We'll have words about this later',_ then gave him a hand up. "You alright?"

"Yeah. Fine. Brilliant," Gwaine panted. "You?"

"Wonderful," Lancelot said, though he was favoring his left leg. But he was upright, walking, and talking. The rest of it could wait. "Have you seen Arthur?"

Gwaine shook his head. If he'd seen the king, he hadn't noticed. "No. You?"

"No."

"Dammit." Gwaine swiped at the rain falling into his eyes and glanced around. There was a lull in the fighting, and a muffled chanting rose from the south. "I'll bet you a thousand gold crowns he's in the middle of that."

"I don't take bets I'm bound to lose," Lancelot said.

"Fine, then. Let's get over there. The princess probably needs rescuing, eh?" Gwaine's grin felt too wide. Like he was faking it. "Last one there buys the winner a drink."

"I'll take that bet."

* * *

Leon was unsure of two things. The first, was when he had lost sight of Arthur. The second was when he had ended up amongst Lord Pynell's soldiers. They weren't bad at fighting. Indeed, they were quite good. But he couldn't focus on the battle until he was back to back with Bedivere. The taller knight wouldn't put a knife in his back like he feared one of Pynell's men might.

 _Might_ , being the operative word. He wouldn't put it past the man to try to strip Arthur of his most trusted friends ands councilors. The middle of a battle would be a perfect opportunity for murder, for who could tell if the weapon had been wielded by friend or foe? Some idle part of his mind wondered if he should have followed Merlin, and yet another was relieved that Percival had remained behind with Guinevere.

Then he decided that he should have his entire mind on the battle, because while Arthur valued Leon's ability to pursue multiple lines of thought at once, it might get him killed in the here and now.

"Leon! Down!" Bedivere shoved him to the ground before a horseman could take one of their heads off, then yanked him back to his feet.

The enemy knight yanked his horse around to come at them again. The beast couldn't gain much purchase in the mud. And yet the rider wouldn't need great speed to kill one of them.

Leon and Bedivere split up, moving about ten feet apart so the knight couldn't bear down on both of them. He would have to choose- the tall knight with sword and shield, or the shorter one with sword and dagger? Neither were good weapons against a man on horseback, but if one pulled the rider to the ground, then all bets were off.

The knight chose Bedivere and spurred the horse through the mud. Bedivere stepped aside and brought his shield up. Not that it would protect him against a charger trained to overrun men.

Leon slashed at the rider as he passed by. The sword caught him just above his greaves. The rider screamed and yanked on the reins, pulling the horse around before it trampled Bedivere. It reared up instead, giving Leon the chance to strike at the rider again. Desperation gave him the strength to pierce the chainmail hauberk his enemy wore.

The man screamed. The horse reared. The motion pulled the dagger out of Leon's hand and sprayed blood across his face. He screwed his eyes shut against it and winced away.

He couldn't shut out Bedivere's agonized cry. He forced his eyes open, ignoring the sting of salt and blood. The knight writhed on the ground, but the horse had come down on Bedivere. His shield protected his chest and head, but not his legs. One of them was unnaturally twisted. Broken.

The horse reared again, like it was preparing to trample Bedivere. Leon reached out in desperation, and with some great stroke of luck, he grabbed the horse's reins. He yanked the beast's head around and slapped its flank with the flat of his sword. He was granted a second miracle when its hooves hit the ground on either side of Bedivere's head, and it ran off away from the fray.

"Bedivere?" Leon spared a moment to kneel and check for a heartbeat. It was there, but fast and fluttering. Bedivere opened his eyes and stared up Leon without seeing him. Then he curled onto his side and vomited.

Leon winced again, but tugged Bedivere away from the pile of sick when he was done retching. "Stay with me. That's an order, Bedivere. Arthur hasn't released you from his service yet." The other knight focused on Leon for a moment and let out a slurred laugh.

There was no medic in sight, and too few of Camelot's men. Leon was on his own now with an injured brother at his side. "Right, then. Only one thing to do now." He wiped the blood and rain out of his eyes, then pulled Bedivere's shield out of the mud and placed it over his chest and arms. Then he took up the other knight's sword and with two blades, prepared to defend his brother.


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur was surrounded.

There had been a plan behind it, he knew. The soldiers of Rheged had used overwhelming numbers to push away or kill whatever men had stood by Arthur's side, separating them like a sheepdog culling sheep until he was alone, with only a sword to protect him.

For a moment he wished he hadn't sent Merlin away. Perhaps the sorcerer's reputation would have helped protect them both, and the magic would have been secondary. But it was more likely that Rheged's men would have flooded the area, showering them with arrows and fire until they fell together. Even Merlin couldn't fend off an army forever, no matter what the rumors said.

No, it was best that he had sent Merlin to the healers' tents with a simple order: ' _Defend them'._ Protect the wounded. Defend those who cannot defend themselves. Hadn't Merlin once told him that he wasn't meant to be a warrior? Arthur couldn't turn him into one now. He couldn't turn a healer into a killer.

Arthur would have to face this alone. It was his fault, after all. He hadn't foreseen that Urien would attack before dawn when it was nearly too dark to see, hadn't guessed that Urien might use his connection to Morgana to conceal his troops from even Merlin's eyes.

He should have seen these things or at least guessed at the possibility. It was his duty as king, after all, to do all that he could to protect his people. He would have to mark this day as yet another failure.

Assuming he survived.

He turned in a slow circle, staring down whichever of the men dared to meet his gaze. There weren't many of those, and yet the line around him held fast. The men clacked their sword hilts against their shields, a rhythm that began slowly then sped up until it was just ear-splitting noise.

"Come at me, then!" he called out to them. "Unless you're all cowards!"

"Bravo, your Grace," someone called out lazily. Arthur turned to find Rheged's men parting around a young man in lightweight armor. There was arrogance in his stride and a sneer on his lips. They were the same things Arthur had seen on his own face in the mirror once, long ago. "You are very brave, Arthur Pendragon, to challenge forty men at once. How fortunate for you that you'll only have to face one of them."

"And which of these men will face me?" Arthur asked. "Or is it to be you, here and now, O Nameless One?"

"I'm hurt." The man put a hand over his heart like he'd been wounded, but the amusement in his eyes gave the lie to his words. "I'll be your brother-in-law one day, and you don't even know who I am."

"Accolon. Morgana's betrothed." Arthur spun his sword around, both to keep his hands limber, and to catch a glimpse of the blade itself. The sword of the Kings of Camelot. The sight of it always grounded him, its strength a symbol of Camelot's strength. "If we're meant to be brothers, then, it would be in poor taste for me to kill you."

Accolon laughed. "There will be death today, Pendragon, but not for me. Your sweet sister has Seen battles for me beyond today's. She didn't see you in them, though."

"Strange, that," Arthur smirked. "Merlin has Seen a future with me in it. He made no mention of you."

"Of course your pet sorcerer would say such things to stay in your favor. It is the sort of thing peasants do." Accolon pulled his sword from its sheath, slowly, as if such a motion would frighten Arthur. "Can you tell me if the rumors are true? Is your pet really so loyal to you that he serves you both by day _and_ by night?"

Arthur's fingers twitched around the hilt of his sword, but he did his best to let the insult roll off his back. Rumors lived in any number of venomous forms, and even he had heard whispers of this kind. He held his tongue.

Accolon wasn't quite done. "I'll take your silence for confirmation," he called out, loud enough for his men to hear. Their laughter rumbled through the mist. "And does he service your wife, as well? The Peasant Queen of Camelot? Or do you leave that to her pretty little handmaid? A Druid, isn't it? That's a strange creature to have in the court of Camelot. You're building quite the menagerie."

"Are you trying to talk me to death?" Arthur said, keeping his tone even and not rising to Accolon's bait. "Or are you working up the courage to actually face me?"

"Never let it be said that you weren't straightforward, Pendragon," Accolon said. "But if you're willing to find your death, then I will bring it to you." He stalked forward.

Arthur settled into a fighting stance and let out a slow, calming breath. Rumor had it that Accolon was a brilliant fighter, _'A match for Arthur himself'',_ the old wags said. They were about to put it to the test.

They met with a flurry of blows that got neither one of them anywhere, the mud keeping them from finding enough purchase to push the other back. With the pre-duel pleasantries ended, neither of them spoke. Accolon's men didn't either, leaving the two fighters in an eerie silence punctuated by the scrape of steel against steel and their rasping breaths.

They met again and again, meeting attacks with quick counter attacks, using clever parries to keep their blades from coming close enough to draw blood. Arthur would gain a few feet here, Accolon would take a few there. They pushed each other around the circle without gaining an advantage like this was the practice ring, and they were fighting with blunt swords to see who would pay for drinks at the inn that night.

Arthur vaguely noted a chant rising from the men around them, but it was meaningless to him. He kept his focus on Accolon, trying to guess where each attack would come from, noting the man's weaknesses, and seeking a way to bring him down.

Accolon drew first blood. They were staring each other down across their crossed blades when Accolon twisted, driving the point of Arthur's sword into the mud. His fist caught Arthur in the face, breaking his nose and sending him stumbling backward. Momentarily blinded, Arthur raised his sword to block the blow he knew was coming.

The blades met with a piercing _screeeee_. Arthur felt something give way. Whether it was within him, or the sword, he couldn't say. He didn't have time to think about it, though. He forced his eyes open and staggered to his feet in time to catch a blow to the ribs that knocked him down again. His chainmail stopped the blade from slicing into him, but a rib popped and nearly knocked the wind out of him.

"It's a fine blade, is it not?" Accolon stepped back and ran a finger up the length of it. He glanced past Arthur where the sounds of battle were rising again. "Your sister enchanted it herself, for a particular purpose." He raised the sword high, putting all his strength into the downward swing.

Arthur raised his own sword to meet it, the sword of the kings of Camelot. The blades met. There was a sound like shattering glass and Arthur's sword broke apart, filling the air with shards of metal.

Accolon's blade kept moving downward, striking Arthur's left arm, cutting through flesh and breaking bone until it caught on the edge of his chainmail. He screamed. The world went gray.

He heard a faint call, "To the king!", and next he knew a pair of blue eyes was staring, terrified, into his.

"Arthur?!"

He blinked, forced his eyes to stay open. "Leon?" he whispered, swallowing the blood collecting in his mouth. It tasted foul. He wanted to throw up, but managed to keep it down.

"Thank God. Let's get you out of here," Leon breathed. He grabbed something off the ground, then pulled Arthur's uninjured arm around his shoulder. "Fall back! Fall back!" he shouted.

Arthur hardly heard the call to retreat. Leon's cry of _'Fall back'_ kept echoing in his head, and even in his addled state, Arthur knew what that meant.

The great army of Camelot had been defeated.


	7. Chapter 7

Arthur's cry pierced Merlin's mind like a dagger to the eye. He dropped to his knees, his patient forgotten.

"Merlin?" Gaius started to kneel beside him, but Merlin waved him off.

"It's Arthur. Something's wrong." He pulled himself to his feet and sent a wave of magic across Bedivere's leg to help heal the broken bone. They'd set and bandaged it. There was nothing else Merlin could do now that the other healers couldn't. "I've got to find Arthur."

He spun away from Gaius's restraining hand, doing his best to ignore the worry plainly written on the old physician's face. Gaius had questions, he knew, but Merlin didn't have any answers. Wouldn't have any answers until he found Arthur.

Assuming he wasn't too late.

Merlin sprinted out of the healers' tent, cutting between the soldiers that formed the defenses around the wounded. A few tried to stop him, but he brushed past them like he was made of smoke and flung himself into the midst of the fighting. He ducked the sword swipe aimed at his head, throwing the soldier backward with a word.

He couldn't see who fired the crossbow bolt at him, but he dodged it all the same, stupidly halting in the midst of the battle to seek out the light that was Arthur. He found him ringed about by Rheged's soldiers, facing a dark figure Merlin felt like he'd seen somewhere before, if only in a dream.

Arthur was on his knees, his light flickering. The dark figure lifted something- a sword?- high above his head and prepared to bring it down, fast and hard. Merlin reached out and _shoved_ the figure away, before he could land the killing stroke. Arthur's light steadied, and Merlin could breathe again.

"Merlin!" A hand landed on his shoulder, startling him out of the trance he'd fallen into. He looked up to find Elyan staring back at him, something between anger and fear burning in his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Arthur," Merlin breathed, as though that answered everything.

Elyan opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and grabbed Merlin's arm. "Stay with me, then, for God's sake!"

He pulled his arm out of Elyan's grasp, but followed along. Leon's voice, faint and muted by the mists came from ahead. "To the king!" Merlin stumbled, then found his footing and sprinted ahead of Elyan, prompting another curse from the knight. He ignored it and kept running.

Arthur was surrounded by a mess of fighting, and even though more red-cloaked men were coming, there weren't enough of them to push Rheged's men back.

So Merlin cleared the field for them, pushing back at their enemies with the pent-up rage and terror and hate borne of being so terribly close to losing Arthur. The men of Rheged fell, nearly to a one. Some were dead, some merely staggered, and an eerie silence fell over the field as Merlin's cry ended, and he stood alone on the battlefield, breathless.

He looked for Arthur then, found him dazed and bleeding, supported by Leon and then Lancelot as well as the knights fell back into the trees.

"Merlin?" Elyan's voice was tentative. He reached out and touched the warlock on the arm.

"I'm fine," Merlin said, though he tasted blood in his mouth. "Go see to Arthur. I'll see to the rest of this."

Whatever it was that Elyan saw in his eyes, he didn't question Merlin's intentions. But he didn't leave. "Whatever it is you're doing, Merlin, I'm not going to leave you here alone. Even you need someone to watch your back."

Merlin's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Fine, then." He turned and looked back to the emptying battlefield, raising one hand to the mists and stretching the other toward the earth at his feet, calling to water in the valley to come to him and rise up as a mist. The ground beneath him dried as the water rose out of it, hardening and then cracking as though it were the depth of a long drought. The effect spread in an ever-widening ring around Merlin, while the mists grew and grew until it seemed a solid mass, opaque and impenetrable.

There was a lone shape visible- the dark figure who had nearly killed Arthur. He stood still for a moment, staring back at Merlin. Then he turned away, his deep laughter rumbling through the mists until he disappeared.


	8. Chapter 8

"I wonder if it's raining out on the border," Elayne said from her spot by the window. "Wouldn't it be terrible if the men had to fight in all the rain and mud?"

Guinevere sighed as she set yet another sheaf of parchment to the side of Arthur's desk, having decided that those who desired power above all things had never seen the amount of paperwork required to run a kingdom. If they had, they wouldn't want a throne at all. "It would be terrible," Guinevere said, "but Arthur went to negotiate with King Urien, not to fight."

"But everyone says that Urien won't hold to his word, and that it will come to a fight. That would be terrible!" Elayne tugged the curtain closed. It was so cloudy and dim outside that it didn't matter. There was more than enough candlelight to keep the room lit. "I think it would be better if we women went to settle these matters. We talk about our problems. We don't pull out swords and fight about things every chance we get."

"We would probably talk our problems to death before we ever came up with a solution," Guinevere said as she dipped her reed pen into the inkwell and let the excess drip off the tip. "Or have you ever noticed that when you and Linnet fight about something, you talk and talk and talk, and you never come to a solution."

"A point to Her Majesty," Niniane said without looking up from the mortar and pestle in her hands. "And you might remember, Elayne, that Morgana is quick to fight, and that Guinevere herself is skilled with a sword."

"I know that," Elayne said. She flopped into a chair at the table and slouched against it, resting her chin in her palm. "You always have to counter everything I say. Both of you do." She shot annoyed looks at Niniane and Linnet. "I know you think I'm just a silly girl, but I have as much a right to say things as any of you."

"Of course you do, Elayne." Guinevere gave her youngest lady-in-waiting a gentle smile. "But you should think about what you say before you say it. And be careful of what rumors you repeat."

"I don't repeat half of what I hear!" Elayne protested, her eyes widening and back straightening. "People say such terrible things. Especially about Merlin. And about you, Niniane. If those people had any decency at all, they'd beg forgiveness for those awful lies. I hope you haven't heard any of them."

"I've heard a few of them," Niniane said.

"Everyone's heard a few of them. It seems like every other time I see him, Gwaine is half in a rage about one rumor or another. The things he hears…." Linnet shook her head, her hands pausing over her embroidery. "They're certainly not to be repeated in good company, if only for the sake of Elayne's virgin ears."

Guinevere hid her smile at Elayne's outraged expression, though she was glad that Linnet didn't repeat whatever it was Gwaine had heard. Probably something to do with Merlin's supposed bedmates. Or perhaps they were likening Niniane to Morgana. "I appreciate that you're not passing them along, even in here. We have enough problems without having to make up more of them." She sighed and pushed the last of the paperwork away, just in time to hear a knock at the door. "Come in."

George appeared in the doorway, obsequious as ever as he bowed. "Sir Percival to see you, Your Majesty."

"Just send him in next time, George. You don't have to announce everyone to me," Guinevere said, though she knew it wouldn't do much good. The man was obsessed with protocol.

Percival rolled his eyes good-naturedly as he walked in behind George, stepping back quickly as the servant turned to let him in, and patting him on the shoulder when George realized Percival wasn't where he'd left him. "I'd listen to Her Majesty in the future, George," he said, his smile taking on a crazed edge.

George turned and left as quickly as his dignity would allow, closing the door behind him rather more loudly than normal.

"You shouldn't tease him like," Guinevere said. "He's only doing his duty as best he can, even if he is annoying about it."

"But he's such an easy target," Percival said.

"You are too tall to go after low hanging fruit, Sir Percival," Guinevere said, trying- and failing- to keep her voice stern. "What brings you all the way up here? I know you'd rather be on the training field, even though Gaius, Blaise, _and_ Merlin told you not to overwork that shoulder."

Percival flushed at that. "Um, yes. Well, a message came in. I think it was meant for Merlin- one of his birds brought it in, anyway- but since he's not here, I figured you should see it first."

"A Druid likely sent it, then," Niniane chimed in. "Maybe one of my kinsmen." She perked up, her gaze flitting back and forth from Percival's face to the bit of parchment in his hands as he brought it to Guinevere.

"Let's see it, then," Guinevere said. She squinted at the crabbed handwriting, struggling to decipher the message through all the odd spellings and smudged writing. Birds were good for sending messages, she decided, but they were rubbish at keeping them clean.

"What does it say?" Elayne asked eagerly. She and the other two women had gathered around the desk, anxious to hear the news. Next to them, Percival looked like a drab, too-tall bird unwisely placed in a garden of songbirds.

"It seems that men have been seen taking supplies to the Isle of the Blessed," Guinevere said, her eyes trailing over the last line again to make sure she had read the message correctly. "And Morgana was with them. What does this mean?" She looked up at Percival, though he would hardly have any answers.

"It means there's no one to counter Merlin if it does come to a battle with Rheged?" he replied hesitantly, as unsure about the idea as she was.

Niniane waved the notion away like it was a fly buzzing around her face. "Things can be enchanted, and so can people," she said. "What worries me about this is the thought of Morgana re-establishing the Goddess's temple on the Isle. If she can gain enough followers there, then Camelot would find itself faced with a threat greater than Rheged."

"But there can't be that many followers of the Old Religion left in the Five Kingdoms, can there?" Linnet asked.

"In Camelot and Amata? No. Most of the magic users in these lands fled if they weren't killed," Niniane said. "But the darker practitioners are practically welcomed in Rheged, and sorcery was never really banned in Nemeth. Combine them with the renegade Druid tribes, those who fled to join the Picts in the north, those who hid in the high reaches of the White Mountains, or crossed the sea to Eire, and things could start looking grim, indeed." Niniane's hands spasmed into fists on the desk, and she pulled in on herself like she was afraid of something. "And Gods help us if the Britons join Morgana."

"The Britons? Surely they're gone by now." Guinevere raised an eyebrow at Britons, who had lived in these lands long before the Five Kingdoms were established, were largely a myth now. A forgotten people whose remnants had been wiped out in the fires of the Great Purge. "And even if a few have survived, how could they be a threat?"

"The Britons weren't destroyed in the Purge, My Lady," Niniane said. "They fled into the mists and into the Hollow Hills. I have heard stories that they exist there, just outside the mortal realms, waiting for their time to return. And then when they come back, they will bring strange and terrible magics with them. We would do well not to disregard them, My Lady. Sometimes, it is the things we want to forget that we need to remember the most."

There was an odd, pale light in Niniane's eyes. It was too much like the light that shone in Merlin's when Prophecy took hold of him. A chill rolled down Guinevere's spine, but she straightened her shoulders and controlled her voice. "Thank you for your wisdom, Niniane. But a few men in a boat and a possible sighting of Morgana is no reason to panic. We will keep an eye on the situation but in the meantime, we must focus on the threat in front of us. It will do us no good to prepare for next year's enemy if there's already one standing before us with a knife to our throats."

"Yes, My Lady," Niniane said, somewhat abashed. Her downcast eyes had turned back to their normal- and more comfortable- shade of deep green.

"Don't worry, though, Niniane. I'm not going to ignore this altogether," Guinevere said. She looked up at Percival. "I want you to pick out a dozen of the best scouts who are still here. Prepare them to go west and observe the happenings around the Isle of the Blessed. I doubt they'll be able to reach the island itself, but I don't want Camelot to be blind to the goings-on there. Bring me a list of your candidates, and we'll discuss them at dinner tonight. I want them to be ready to go as soon as possible."

"Yes, My Lady." Percival straightened, gaining an inch or two on his already impressive height. Guinevere hid her smile. The knight had been at loose ends with nothing to do while his shoulder healed. Arthur had charged him with protecting her, of course, but she had faced no greater threat than a broken shoe heel, and Percival wasn't a cobbler. Now, though, he had something important to do.

"Go, then," Guinevere said. "And when Arthur returns, he won't be able to chide us for sitting here idly."


	9. Chapter 9

"How many of them were there?" Arthur would have sat up to hear Leon's news, but every time he moved more than a hairsbreadth in any direction, Merlin shot him a glare worthy of Gaius's best. Granted, he had earned that much, and a thousand times worse.

"By my guess, we were outnumbered nearly four to one," Leon said. "There may have been more of them waiting on the ridge or elsewhere, but that was my count." He tossed away the rag he'd been using to clean his face and hands. Dried blood still clung to his jaw and matted his hair, but none of it was his. Leon had come through the battle with a few bruises, nothing more. He had been one of the lucky ones.

Gwaine was nursing a pair of broken ribs, Lancelot a gash that had nearly taken out his eye, and even Gareth had taken a few hits. He had curled up near the fire like a lost puppy and quickly fallen asleep once Merlin determined that his bruises were only skin deep. Bedivere's injuries were by far the worst. If it hadn't been for Merlin and his magic, the knight would have been crippled for life. As it was, his shattered leg would take weeks to heal.

Now Arthur could count the deaths of hundreds of his men, a stunning defeat, and the loss of precious intelligence regarding an enemy in his own court. Arthur doubted that there could be a king less worthy of his crown in all the world.

It wasn't just the day's events weighing him down. It was everything else- all the wretched things he hadn't seen coming, from Morgana's treachery or his father's death to the damnable affair at Blackheath. The fire that had broken out in Camelot. The spies that leaked secrets to his enemies both at home and abroad. Hell, he couldn't even keep his own court from spreading malicious rumors about Merlin or sniggering about Guinevere's lowborn heritage.

"I suppose Pynell's already railing on about my unworthiness," Arthur said. He sagged further into the pillow at his back and ran a hand through his hair.

"Stop that. This is hard enough without your fidgeting," Merlin muttered as he dabbed a sweet-smelling salve around Arthur's broken nose. He gave the sorcerer an apologetic look before turning his gaze back to Leon.

"Uh… yes," he replied hesitantly. "The gist of it is that our defeat today, and the destruction of your father's sword is a sign."

"A sign that I'm unworthy of my crown," Arthur sighed.

"Not in so many words, but… Yes. That's what he means," Leon said. "He's not so foolish as to say it outright- he knows that would be perilously close to treason- but his message is clear."

"Is anyone listening to him?" Merlin asked. He gingerly stretched Arthur's injured arm out and set to cutting away the bloodstained bandages.

"Some are," Leon shrugged. "Men always look toward the strongest voice after a defeat, and Pynell's a persuasive man. Arthur, you need to get back out there as soon as you can. Talk to the men, make them see that this is only a temporary setback, and that their friends and brothers haven't died in vain."

"I know." Arthur closed his eyes and tried to force a false confidence into his voice, but he didn't need to see either of them to know they weren't convinced. "As soon as Merlin's finished, I'll speak to them. Just… go and get some rest. Or look in on Bedivere for me. Or both," he finished lamely.

Leon shifted nervously, then blew a long breath out. "Yes, Sire." If tent flaps could be closed in a disappointed fashion, then Leon did just that. Arthur slumped even further into the pillow.

"He's angry at the situation, not you," Merlin said. He shuffled in his chair and rested Arthur's arm across his knees. "There isn't a soul in Camelot who's more loyal to you than Leon. Except for Gwen, of course."

' _Or you,'_ Arthur wanted to say, but Merlin laid one hand on his forehead and the other over the wound on his arm. The sentiment turned to a hiss as Merlin's fingers pressed against the slashed and bruised skin. Arthur flinched away, but the sorcerer didn't let go. He began chanting instead, whispered words that came and went faster than Arthur could comprehend.

A warmth grew within, in Arthur's chest first, spreading into his arm and then to his head. He bit back a cry as cracked and broken bones pulled themselves painfully back into place. The deep itch of healing tissue replaced the sharp ache of injury as his body- encouraged by magic- knit itself together in minutes instead of weeks.

He opened his eyes and looked up at Merlin, still chanting, still healing, eyes closed and oblivious to the blood trickling from his nose. As ignorant as Arthur was to the ways of magic, even he knew that was a sign that Merlin was wearing himself dangerously thin. "Merlin, stop. Merlin!" he threw as much authority into his voice as he could muster.

Merlin gasped. His eyes opened, revealing a fading swirl of gold within the summer blue. He slumped against his chair, his hands dropping to his sides. His face went deathly white for a moment until he caught his breath.

"Are you alright?" Arthur levered himself up on his elbow. The pain was fading, so he sat up all the way.

"Yeah," Merlin said. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Just… don't knock me out of a spell like that again. It's… not a good thing to do."

"I'm supposed to just sit by and let you burn yourself out for me, then?"

Merlin shrugged and stood, swaying for a moment before steadying himself and wiping the blood from under his nose. "Better me than you," he said, softly enough that Arthur was sure he hadn't meant to say it aloud.

"Don't ever say that," he said, as though he could command the thoughts in Merlin's head. "You are not worth less than I am, and I am worth no more than any other soul in Camelot."

Merlin poured a cup of water, took a sip, and brought it over to Arthur. His hands shook, and without the fingerless gloves he normally wore, the burn scars that wrapped around his wrists and up his arms were plain to be seen. "You are the heart of this kingdom, Arthur. If you fall, we'll all go tumbling down after you."

Arthur stared down at the water in the cup. "My father pulled the kingdom up from its knees. Camelot would have been destroyed if not for him, and I… I keep failing. Other kings keep chipping away at our lands, and I can't stop them. I couldn't keep you from being burned, I couldn't stop the lower town's destruction, I…"

"You didn't give the order that sent me to the pyre, Arthur," Merlin said sternly. "You didn't light the fire in the lower town. Whenever Camelot's lands have been invaded, you have reclaimed them. Your father might have saved Camelot, but his desire for vengeance nearly tore it apart again." Merlin leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "Your people love you, or have you forgotten how they cheered for you while you walked among them the day we left? You know their names, you share their worries. You truly care what happens to them. What more could they hope for from their king?"

"But I can't keep them safe," he said, steadfastly refusing to look anywhere but at the water, as though it held the answers to all his questions, if only he could decipher the mystery of its shifting surface. "What happens when Pynell raises an army against me and drags Camelot into a civil war? I can't fight a border war, keep Morgana at bay, _and_ deal with a rebellion amongst my own bannermen."

"The Lord Pynell rushes toward his own doom," Merlin said softly, though the timbre of his voice was _different_ , like someone else was pushing their words through his body. Arthur looked up sharply. Merlin's downcast eyes were pale as new ice. Then he blinked and rubbed his brow like it pained him.

"What did you just say?" Arthur asked.

Merlin glanced up. His eyes had returned to their normal deep blue, and he looked genuinely baffled at Arthur's question. "I didn't say anything."

"But…" Arthur shook his head. "Never mind. Just- go, for a while. I need to think. Find me some food if you need something to do."

Merlin straightened in his chair and gave Arthur a long, searching look. He wanted to turn away, let his eyes wander across the room, stare down at the water again, or find anything else but the sorcerer's steady gaze, but he forced himself to look back. Then Merlin gave him a small, sad smile before he rose and walked toward the tent's door. He paused at the edge of the firelight and looked back at Arthur. "I told you once that you were destined to be the greatest king that Camelot has ever known. I wasn't lying then, and I'm not now when I tell you that there is no kingdom on this earth that could hope for a nobler, more just ruler than you."

Arthur stared back at him wordlessly, trying to believe. Then Merlin turned away and disappeared into the mists beyond the door.


	10. Chapter 10

The fog was as thick as it had been when Merlin first summoned it. No one else dared move about in it. Darkness was falling, and none of the men were willing to lose themselves in the uncanny mists. But six months of blindness had taught Merlin how to walk without seeing, and so he barely had to concentrate as he traced a path around the perimeter, letting instinct and the sounds of the camp guide him.

Those sounds were morose at best. Normally, the men would be laughing or singing together, arguing over games of chance, or boasting about their deeds in battle. But not tonight. Tonight, the cries of the injured and dying traveled through the mists like the ghosts they might become. And there were mutterings of discontent, men grumbling that Arthur had led them astray, had failed to foresee what Urien would do, had been led into folly by Merlin.

Arthur did, of course, have staunch supporters throughout the ranks, but the factions were growing. If they weren't checked soon, the army would start to tear itself apart, and Urien's work would be complete without his having to raise another finger.

On most nights, Merlin would look to the stars for guidance, listening to the music of the heavens for the gods' whisperings. Between the mists and clouds and his own roiling thoughts, though, the gods have to shout to be heard. The only thing filling Merlin's ears were discontented words. The voice was all too familiar.

Merlin edged closer to Pynell's campfire to watch the lord himself sat astride a rock, just above his men. They sat on the ground in an uneven ring, their backs to Merlin as they listened to him rant. "... the old king would never have fallen into such an ambush. Uther would not have let himself fall into trap like this, and then run away like a frightened rabbit. We were stronger in Uther's day. We had pride and loyalty. We knew what our duty was, and we knew what it meant to defend this kingdom." Pynell smote the rock with a gloved fist. "And what are we now? Huddled like rabbits, hiding from our enemies in this spell-summoned fog. This never would have happened in Uther's day. He never would have conspired with sorcerers."

' _How little you knew your king,'_ Merlin thought.

Pynell's gaze swept up and over his men, locking with Merlin's as though he'd heard the sorcerer's thoughts. His lips pulled back in a sneer, and Merlin was hard-pressed to tell if it was fury, fear, or both that roiled in the man's eyes. "You," he hissed, raising an accusing finger toward the warlock, a wraithlike figure at the light's threshold, wreathed in mist.

Merlin held his gaze, unflinching, waiting for the right moment- for Pynell to look away for the barest instant. Then he whispered a few words of power, pushed their attention away from him, becoming essentially invisible to the eyes of men. Though they all turned to look to where Pynell pointed, they saw nothing but fog, and would see nothing but fog until Merlin lifted the spell.

The anger in Pynell's eyes turned to fear and then to doubt, as though he wondered if he had truly seen Merlin at all.

' _Let the him wonder if I was there,_ ' he decided. ' _Let him wonder what I saw and heard, and what I'll tell Arthur_.' Doubt could be as sharp-edged a weapon as a sword, if used properly.

Whatever his thoughts were, Pynell's rant was over, his momentum broken. Merlin waited, but the man only sank into his own thoughts for a handful of minutes before stalking back to his tent.

Merlin turned away and chuckled inwardly for a moment before darker thoughts killed his amusement. If more foolish ears had heard Pynell's angry words, what might they be inspired to do? Men had died for less.

He stopped and let his magic trace a path back to Arthur. The king slept uneasily, troubled by his own doubts. But outside, his friends stood watch. Leon and Elyan, Lancelot and Gwaine, and Gareth, too, though he was still yawning. If Arthur woke now, he would hear them laughing quietly as they played dice. No need to worry, then. The king was safe.

' _But still...'_

Merlin brushed a ghostly hand over Arthur's brow, reinforcing the connection between them. If anything happened to him, Merlin would know in an instant. Then he came back to himself and continued his wanderings.

This wasn't the first time he at been at the mercy of Arthur's darker moods. He'd had too many pillows, cups, and shoes thrown at him to forget. But he had never seen his king so despondent before, so convinced of his own failings, and so eager to forget how much his people loved him. It had always been so easy to pull Arthur out of such moods before, whether it was with a stupid joke or a few words of wisdom. Neither jests nor platitudes would help him this time, though. Merlin would have to think of something else entirely.

He let his feet pick the path through the woods so his mind would be free to wander. _'How long will Uther's ghost haunt us all?'_ Merlin couldn't even begin to guess at an answer. He'd known his own father, Balinor, for too short a time to understand the conflicting knotwork of emotion that bound a father and son over a lifetime. But even he wanted to make his father proud in whatever afterlife Balinor had gone to. How intense would that same drive be for Arthur?

Despite the enmity he and Uther had shared toward the end, Arthur had still loved him, still craved the old king's approval. Did he think Uther watched them from the heaven the white priests preached about? Or did he exist in the gray gloom of the Land of the Dead? Surely one such as Uther would never be afforded a place in the Blessed Isles, far beyond the west.

Merlin shook himself out of those thoughts. The problem of where Uther's wretched soul had gone wasn't his to solve. His task was both more mundane and more profound than that: how could he, Merlin, restore the king's faith in himself?

He was tempted to summon Kilgharrah. He'd wandered far enough from the camp- perhaps two miles- and the mists would blind the men's eyes to the dragon's arrival. But it was a fool's hope to think that Kilgharrah's advice would help. His aid had been double-edged when it was given at all. More likely, he would ask a few leading questions before falling silent, waiting for Merlin to find the answer on his own.

He often wondered what the point the dragons served, and whether they existed simply to drive the Dragonlords insane from the sheer frustration of dealing with them. In the far corners of his mind, Merlin thought he heard faint reptilian laughter.

Perhaps he was on the right track with that.

So no, Kilgharrah wouldn't give him the answers he sought. Nor would Freya's spirit where it slept in the waters of the lake of Avalon. He hadn't even known how to contact her when he'd been given the tools to do so. How could he call on her now, when she was so far away? And Gaius, as full of answers as he was, likely wouldn't be able to solve this riddle, either. Merlin was on his own, with only his wits such as they were, to guide him.

"Oh, Merlin, Merlin Merlin," he said aloud to himself. "Emrys. The most powerful sorcerer who has ever lived. I might actually be the idiot Arthur has always accused me of being."

He sighed and started walking again. Despite the darkness, the forest felt familiar. Like he'd been there before, once upon a time. Or in a dream.

Or in a vision.

He shivered and brushed a hand over his eyes. There were moments here and there when it seemed like he'd lost his grip on the flow of time, as though the past, present, and future had merged into one dense moment, and he saw his mother's smile and Niniane's sad eyes; an endless forest in the hollow hills and strange mountains far, far away, or dragonfire and a sword of light.

Merlin stopped short, gasping. He braced himself against a tree until the visions drained away. All of them except for one. The sword of light. "And the sword shall be called forth from the stone," he whispered.

There was magic here. A spell of concealment woven over a far more powerful magic. It felt familiar. And childlike. He laughed as he recognized his own spellcraft from years earlier, when his magic was still a secret and he'd hardly had the time or chance to develop his powers. As fragile as this particular working was, it was a miracle it had survived all this time, keeping the dragon-forged sword hidden until the time was right.

"And the sword shall be drawn forth from the stone," Merlin said again, his voice strong and sure again. "That time is now. Surely it's now. What else could it be?"

The destruction of his father's sword had devastated Arthur. The fact that Merlin had sensed some latent magic of Morgana's upon it- probably spread from Accolon or his blade- had made no difference in the king's mind. He had lost a symbol of Camelot's strength. What could possibly replace it?

But then, what was a king's sword but a blade wrapped up in history?

And what was history but the continuation of the stories men told around the campfire?

The army of Camelot was awash in rumors, half-truths, and unfounded stories. Left unchecked, they would tear the men apart. "It's time to write a new story, then," Merlin said as he stared down the path that led to a clearing where a sword had been sheathed in the heart of a stone. It was waiting, he knew, for the hand of the one it had been made for.

It was waiting for Arthur.

Merlin brushed his old spell away like an old cobweb. Then he turned and ran headlong through the forest, trusting his magic to guide him back to Arthur. If a story could tear Camelot apart, then a different tale could put it back together.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you to everyone who has favorited, followed, or commented! I truly appreciate it. A great big thank you, as well, to staymagical for beta-reading for me! Just a quick note to say that it will be a couple of weeks until the next update, as I will be traveling._


	11. Chapter 11

" _Arthur."_

He didn't want to wake up. He was having such a lovely dream involving Guinevere, a forest glen, and no responsibilities. But the voice was insistent, dragging him out of sleep whether he wanted it or not.

"Arthur, get up."

"Leave me alone," Arthur mumbled into the blanket. Merlin yanked it away from him, and the cold air shocked him further into wakefulness. "Merlin!" He shivered and sat up, shooting a glare at the sorcerer as he reached for a shirt. "What are you doing? Is it morning?"

"No. It's not even midnight," Merlin said. He folded the blanket into uneven thirds before tossing it at the foot of the bed and picked up Arthur's coat, holding it open for the king to slip his arms into the sleeves. It was a familiar gesture, something Merlin had done a thousand times. It reminded Arthur of days past, when he had been a prince and Merlin had seemed like nothing more than a mere servant. Looking back, those days had been so simple, and his heart ached at their loss. Then he took a breath and set it all aside.

"What's wrong?" Arthur asked. "Is Urien mounting some sort of nighttime attack?"

"No. It's Pynell."

Arthur muttered a short string of curses under his breath. "What's he doing now? Blaming our loss on you? Threatening a coup?"

"No to both. He's not so foolish that he'd outright threaten you," Merlin said as he draped the red cloak across Arthur's shoulders. "That would be treasonous, and he's not looking to get his head chopped off. But he implies. He reminds them of the power and prestige Camelot gained during Uther's reign, of how Uther beat back the Saxons and brought ruin to the Isle of the Blessed, and neglects to mention his defeats. And he's insinuating that you're not worthy of Uther's legacy or his crown. He reminds them of how Blackheath fell, how Morgana wrested the throne away from you while Uther was ill, and implies that the destruction of your sword and our defeat today is a sign of your unworthiness."

Arthur sighed. He rolled his shoulders to settle the cloak's heavy weight more comfortably. If only all his burdens were so easily shifted. "Are the men listening to him?"

"Some are. Some aren't. But you can't afford to have such divisions in your own ranks."

"Tell me something I _don't_ know, Merlin!" Arthur snapped, regretting the words as soon as they passed his lips.

If Merlin was bothered by it, it didn't show on his face. He took a step back, and met Arthur's contrite gaze with a neutral look of his own. "They need to see you, Arthur. To see that you're alive and whole, unbent and unbroken by all this. They need their king."

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but the words failed him. His gaze flicked away from Merlin's. his own unsteady will was hardly a match for the burning intensity in the sorcerer's eyes, especially not when he saw the hilt of his father's sword and the shards of it that had been recovered from the battlefield. "I'm…" he trailed off without bothering to try to find the right words.

"The sword is a symbol, nothing more," Merlin said gently. He draped a cloth over the broken blade, gloved hands smoothing out the wrinkles and leaving behind the sword's fractured outline. "Your people's faith in you does not begin and end with the trappings of your kingship any more than your love for Guinevere is bound by the ring you gave her on your wedding day."

"But aren't our symbols the outward sign of who and what we are?" Arthur asked. He reached out and tugged at the silver chain around Merlin's neck, freeing the shining tree of life pendant from his collar. "If you'd worn this five years ago, you would have been executed for it."

"That's true," Merlin admitted. "But I don't need it to follow my gods. And you don't need a sword to be a king. But the people need _you_. They need to see you standing tall, because Pynell is doing his best to tear you down so he can begin to set himself up in your place."

Arthur scowled. "He has enough pride for ten men and a clever way with words, but he's hardly worthy of a throne. Under Pynell's rule, Camelot would fall,"Arthur said. Merlin merely nodded. "Then I suppose I'll just have to pretend that I'm a better man than I think I am."

There were equal measures of sadness and bitterness in Merlin's answering smile. "Sometimes we have to pretend to be other than what we are, in order to survive."

"You know the rules of that game better than anyone else, don't you?" Arthur gave him a rueful smile. "I guess, if you can play it at for years, then I can manage for a few hours." He drew in a long breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped out into the night.

* * *

He spent the next hour wandering about the camp, talking to the men, listening to their complaints- mostly about the food and the eerie weather- addressing their concerns about their defeat, and putting to rest the rumors of his dire wounds or untimely death. His injuries had been bad, but Merlin had healed them well enough that he hardly felt a twinge. That enough seemed to bolster many spirits. But there had been other injuries and actual deaths, and it seemed to Arthur that everyone he spoke to had lost someone, be it a friend or brother, son or father.

It only got worse when he reached the healers' tent, when he confronted the blanket-covered bodies of those who hadn't survived the day. Those deaths sat heavily on his conscience, might have weighed him down entirely if Gaius hadn't gently escorted him out. _'The wounded need their rest, Arthur,'_ he'd said. The following ' _And you have business to attend to'_ was left unsaid.

Through it all Merlin had followed at a distance, silent and ghost-like. Arthur would have rather had the sorcerer at his side to bolster his flagging spirits, but it was probably best that he remain unseen. His presence still set people's nerves on edge on a good day, and this was not a good day.

Then it got worse. He reached Pynell's camp. Arthur hesitated, debating whether he should step into the firelight or not.

"He's meant to be your loyal subject, not the other way around."

Merlin's voice in his ear startled Arthur. On edge, he nearly threw a punch at the sorcerer, but managed to suppress the instinct to attack. Barely. "Merlin," he hissed. "Don't do that."

"What, don't give you advice? I thought that's what you kept me around for?" Merlin asked. Arthur wasn't sure if he liked the mischievous glint in his eyes.

"If I wanted you to jump out of nowhere and surprise me, I'd… Never mind." Arthur raked a hand through his hair, patted it back down again, and did his best to compose himself. "What are you planning, anyway? You have that look on your face."

" _I'm_ not planning anything."

Arthur stared daggers at Merlin, but the fever-bright light never left his eyes, nor did his smile fall away. "Then why are you looking at me like that?"

"If there's any plan at work here, it's due to Fate. A prophecy."

"You normally dread those," Arthur said.

"Not this time," Merlin said, his smile widening. "Go on. You're not alone." He nodded toward the far edge of the firelight, where Leon and Lancelot stood with Elyan behind them. Gwaine was probably there, too, amongst Pynell's lackeys, ready to start a fight or finish it depending on what happened in the next few minutes. They weren't alone, either. The closer Arthur looked, the more friendly faces he saw, leaving the crowd evenly matched between his own supporters and Pynell's.

"You are the King of Camelot," Merlin said. "No one can take that from you."

Arthur gave him a last, searching look, trying to borrow some of Merlin's confidence. He let out a shaky breath, and another until it was steady, then squared his shoulders and stepped into the firelight. "I hear you've been telling war stories again, Lord Pynell," he called out, dredging up a self-assured tone from some forgotten recess of his soul.

There was a sudden, mass shuffle at his arrival, and Arthur would have sworn than at least one man fell over in his attempt to stand up and bow at the same time. He gestured for them all to rise, noting that Pynell barely paid his due respects. "Only tales of past glories, Sire, to remind the men that there have been better days than this one."

"There have been better days. I will agree with you on that account," Arthur said, turning to the assembly and daring to show his back to his enemy as he sought to look as many of the men in the eye as he could. "We came here in good faith to negotiate terms of peace with King Urien. We trusted him to meet us with the same goodwill that we brought with us. He chose to violate that trust and bring battle to a field that should have been sown with peace and friendship for both our realms."

Arthur let his words sink in for a moment as he searched for the next ones. He wasn't sure where the first ones had come from, but his own uncertainties weren't showing and the men seemed to be listening. "We suffered a defeat today. We lost many of our friends and brothers. And while some might say that those deaths are in vain, I say that they are only meaningless if we give up, turn back, and cede to Rheged the lands that have been ours for centuries, knowing full well that Urien is a man who has no qualms about murdering his own people." Perhaps Urien hadn't ordered Hunith's death, but Accolon hadn't been punished for carrying out the deed, no matter who had given the word. It was either a tacit approval of her murder, or a blatant disregard for the lives he should have been protecting.

"Then what does Your Majesty propose that we should do?" Pynell asked.

"We stand, and we fight. We will defend our borders- our _people_ \- to the last man, if need be." Arthur met Pynell's gaze, staring him down, daring him to speak out against his king, accuse Arthur of cowardice, or fling whatever insult he was holding behind his teeth. "Or, if King Urien is willing to hold to his word and negotiate with us, then that is what we will do."

"Do you think the reputation of this kingdom can be maintained if we approach Urien on bended knee, to talk terms of surrender in light of today's defeat?" There was a certain serpentine look in Pynell's eye. Arthur didn't like it anymore than he liked the man or his lackeys, especially the handful closest to him. He marked one of them in his mind, a too-still fellow with dead eyes that roved across the gathering like a hunter searching for prey.

"You forget, Pynell, that my father welcomed the other rulers of the Five Kingdoms, and those from beyond these lands, in order to negotiate peace treaties with them. Did that bring shame upon us?" Arthur asked. He turned to the crowd again as though asking them if they agreed with him or not. There was a quiet rumble of assent. "I think it was a sign of our strength, to show the world that Camelot was willing to extend a hand of friendship to those who had previously tried to tear us down."

Pynell offered him a thin smile. "As noble as those notions are, Sire, there is the problem of Your Majesty's sword and signet ring. Both are symbols of your authority as king. Neither of them are on your person. The ring, Your Majesty left with your wife," Pynell said. Arthur didn't miss the slight against Guinevere, referring to her as _wife_ instead of _queen._ He let it pass. "And the sword, which has been passed down from one king to the next for generations is broken. These may just be symbols of your strength, but they are powerful ones. Without them, will Urien take you seriously at the negotiating table?"

Arthur took a breath to respond, but it was Merlin who spoke first. "If there is need of a sword worthy of a king, I know where one might be found."

Pynell's lips pulled back from his teeth, but he turned the snarl into a laugh. "And will you conjure one out of the air, then, sorcerer? Take a stick and turn it into a sword, perhaps?" There was laughter at that, and Arthur suppressed a smile at the image of Merlin doing such a thing.

Whatever Merlin thought of the jest, he didn't let it show. He stepped into the ring of light, his mien burning with purpose. "There's no need for such common tricks when a real sword waits nearby, ready for the hand of its rightful bearer." The fire shifted then, its light shining falling onto Merlin and casting Pynell into shadow. "I have heard it said," Merlin raised his voice so it would be heard over the whispers, "that there is a sword buried to its hilt in the heart of a stone. A sword forged by the greatest smith of Camelot, and burnished in a dragon's fire. It was made for a king, and only the hand of the rightwise king of Camelot may draw it forth from the stone."

Pynell laughed. If Arthur didn't know the man so well, he wouldn't have heard the nervous undertones. "And what else will we find with this magical sword? A winged horse the king can fly away on to defeat our enemies single-handedly? Is Pandora's Box there, too, waiting to be opened once more?" This prompted laughter from assembly, and Pynell glanced over his shoulder to acknowledge it with a smirk.

Merlin might have been carved from stone for all the response he gave. The fire flared, sending a flash of golden light across his eyes. "Do you fear what you'll find if you go, My Lord? I'm sure His Majesty isn't afraid." He turned just enough to meet Arthur's gaze, and for a moment, buoyed by the surety he saw in Merlin's eyes, Arthur felt like there was nothing in the world he could possibly have reason to fear.

"I will go," Arthur said. "I'm not afraid. Will you join us?" He looked back at Pynell, saw a glint of fear in the man's eyes, and finally saw the man for what he truly was- an old, small-minded man whose youth and glory days were well behind him. A man clinging to the past by his fingertips because he was too afraid of how quickly things were changing.

Pynell's jaw clenched. Usually, Arthur didn't care to corner a wounded beast, but in this case the beast couldn't fight back without looking like more of a fool. "I will go," Pynell said through gritted teeth.

"It's settled, then," Arthur said. He turned away from Pynell, his gaze sweeping over the crowd and landing on Leon and Lancelot. The former looked as swept up in the moment as all the others, while the latter watched Merlin, a worried crease forming on his brow. "We'll go at dawn and find this sword. Then we will see what Urien brings to the table."


	12. Chapter 12

"What was that all about?" Arthur all but collapsed into the bedside chair in his tent. His elation at his triumph- could he call it a triumph?- over Pynell was wearing off. He felt like he'd run all the way here from Camelot. "With the story about the sword and you putting yourself out there like that. You never speak up in public."

"I _rarely_ speak up in public, and only when it matters. As for the sword, that was part of the prophecy I was given." Merlin tugged at the ties on Arthur's cloak, then tugged at the collar of his coat. "Stand up. I can't undo those fastenings when you're sitting down, and Gwen will have my head if I ruin them. She put a lot of work into this coat."

Arthur didn't want to face Guinevere's wrath either, so with a sigh, he stood back up. One of his knees creaked in protest. "What prophecy are you talking about?"

Merlin stopped mid-motion and gave Arthur a look that clearly said, ' _you are an idiot'._ "The one that nearly got me hanged for treason some weeks back. Remember? _'And the sword shall be called forth from the stone'_?"

"Ah. Yes. That one." Arthur ducked his head, his contrition lasting for the span of a heartbeat. "If there's a legend about a sword in a stone pointing out the rightful king of Camelot, why haven't I ever heard about it?"

"You were never the best student of history."

"That's what I have you for."

Merlin looked up from the fastenings. "Then why are you surprised that I know about the sword, and you don't?"

Arthur opened his mouth to make some snappy comeback before he realized he didn't have one. "I suppose that's true. But how do you know it's there? Men hear stories about dragon hoards all the time, but they never find anything. How do you know there's a sword at all? And how do you know where it is?"

"I went out walking earlier, while you were asleep," Merlin began, pausing when he finished undoing Arthur's coat, holding it so the king could pull his arms out of the sleeves. "I needed to clear my head after… everything. I heard what Pynell was saying to his men, how he was trying to turn them against you. And you were already feeling low. I had to do _something_ other than just stand around."

He turned to put the coat away. In the dimness, Arthur couldn't see Merlin's features, only his profile, limned by the scant candlelight. "The sword. It's not alive, but it has a… a presence. And when I drew close enough to it, I could feel it, like a bolt of lightning striking nearby. In light of the prophecy, it call came clear. What you will do tomorrow, to draw the sword from the stone- it's like everything that's happened in the past few days has been leading up to this."

' _Surely Fate didn't require the blood his men had shed to bring about a prophecy,'_ Arthur bit back the bitter retort. Merlin didn't deserve Arthur's anger, and God knew he'd paid a heavy price for his words before today. "But how do you know…?" he trailed off, unsure of the question he wanted to ask.

"How do I know what?" Merlin looked back at him. "That the sword is there? How could I not feel it? A sword of prophecy, burnished in a dragon's fire. I'm surprised I didn't notice it earlier." Merlin chuckled to himself, his eyes downcast for a moment, looking inward until he shook his head and glanced up again. "How do I know the sword is meant for you?" He shrugged. "How do you know that you're tired, or that you've fallen in love? No one can tell you these things. You just know them, through and through."

Merlin's smile was a faint thing, there and gone again before Arthur could really register that it was there. But his back was straight and there was such a light in his eyes that Arthur couldn't help but be calmed by it. Merlin had never led him astray before. Not when he looked so sure, so confident of something. "I suppose I'll just have to trust you on this, then. We'll find this sword of yours and see if it really is meant for me."

"It really is meant for you," Merlin said. "But the dawn is a ways off still. You should get some rest. It's going to be a long day."

"You should do the same," Arthur said. "You look like you're ready to drop." He nodded toward Merlin's shaking hands, noticing his bloodshot eyes for the first time. He looked like he'd spent entirely too many nights in the tavern.

"In a while," Merlin said. "I still have a few things left to do tonight. I'll wake you in the morning. Or I'll have Gareth do it. One or the other." His eyes flashed gold, and the bedcovers folded themselves back. "Good night," he said and hurried out of the tent before Arthur could say another word.

* * *

"Are you joining the ranks of us ugly ones, then, your brightness?"

Lancelot cracked an eye open and tried not to scowl at Bedivere. Gaius's second round of ministrations were pulling on the stitches in his face as it was. There was no need to cause himself unnecessary pain or incur the physician's wrath on Bedivere's account. Besides, the other knight had the detached look about him that came from pain killing medicines. Come morning, he probably wouldn't remember anything he'd said.

"I'd have to be run over by a herd of oxen to be as ugly as you," Lancelot said. "This just adds character."

Bedivere giggled. "That's what they always say when they're afraid the girls won't look at them anymore. Why don't you just have your sorcerer friend come along and magic it shut? Save you a scar?" His hand flopped at his side, a clumsy attempt to mimic a spellcaster's motions.

"Because healing is among the most difficult kinds of magic to master," Gaius said, raising an eyebrow at Bedivere before shooting a lesser look at Lancelot. "It takes a great deal of energy, even for seemingly minor injuries. How he's still on his feet after healing Arthur, I really don't know." Gaius shook his head and looked like he was going to say something else on the subject, then stopped and glanced back at Bedivere. "On top of what he did for Arthur, he did some healing on your leg. It's the reason you'll be walking again."

"'s that so?" Bedivere's eyebrows rose halfway to his hairline, though his mismatched eyes couldn't quite focus on anything. "I didn't even feel it."

"You were unconscious at the time," Lancelot said. "That's what happens when a bloody great horse lands on you. You're lucky it didn't land on your head."

"My father always said I had the devil's own luck," Bedivere drawled, a loopy smile spreading across his face. "What'd you give me? I feel like I could float away."

"That will happen when one has been dosed with Poppy," Gaius said. He turned away from Lancelot and rested a hand on Bedivere's forehead before checking the pulse in his throat. "I'm surprised you're awake at all. I gave you enough to drop a mule. You should have slept 'til dawn."

"I'm stubborn," Bedivere said.

"Yes, you are," Gaius sighed. "I've been cursed to serve a kingdom full of stubborn men. And you're not even the worst."

"I think that's a toss up between Arthur and Merlin," Lancelot said. He leaned back in his chair, only to sit right back up when Gaius raised that eyebrow at him again.

"I'm not finished with you," Gaius said. "If you keep moving around, you're going to end up with salve in your mouth instead of on your injury."

Given that Gaius's salves smelled better than his potions, Lancelot was willing to bet that they tasted better, too. But with his face and his future appearance quite literally in the physician's hands, Lancelot wasn't about to mention that. He closed his mouth, did his best to ignore Bedivere's semi-delirious cackling, and tried not to wince as Gaius daubed more salve onto the gash under his eye.

"How was he when you saw him last?" Gaius asked when he finally put away his tools and covered the little jar of salve.

"Who, Merlin?" Lancelot said. Gaius nodded. "Upright, coherent, and moving under his own power. I know that's not saying much, but…" He huffed a breath out through his nose and raised a hand to scratch his cheek, realized what he was doing, and ran the hand through his tangled hair instead. "He was… I'm not sure how to describe it, the way he looked when Arthur was confronting Pynell, except… Do you remember how Merlin looked that day in the throne room, when Uther had him arrested, and he revealed his magic to the entire court?"

"I do, indeed," Gaius said, his eyes distant, like he was looking into the past. "He looked unworldly."

"That's how he looked tonight," Lancelot said. "Like there was some power working through him, and it wasn't going to let go until it was finished with him. Gaius what… what does that mean for him?"

"I don't know. I'm afraid of what it might mean, but Merlin has no sense of his own limits. He'll just keep pushing himself until he drops. He always does," Gaius said. He let out another long sigh. This one prompted a coughing fit, though. One that didn't let up until the old physician was pale and gasping for air.

"Are you alright?" Lancelot was on his feet, a hand on Gaius's shoulder to steady the older man.

It took a while for Gaius to catch his breath, but when he did he gave Lancelot a weak smile and patted his hand. "I'm an old man, with an old man's ailments. This is just time working against me, and not even Merlin's magic can fix that." He tugged his robes tighter around himself. "Rest, I think, is the best thing for me right now, so I'm going to drag these old bones off to bed. You should do the same."

"If my mind will ever stop running in circles and let me sleep," Lancelot said, chuckling. "Good night, Gaius."

"Good night." Gaius threw a wave over his shoulder as he shuffled away.

Lancelot kept an eye on him until the physician disappeared behind a screen, and the rattle and creaking of a cot told the knight that Gaius had settled into bed. The subsequent snores informed him that he'd fallen asleep.

He glanced around at the other figures in the tent, all of them sleeping. Even Bedivere had finally wandered into dreams. His fingers twitched idly on the covers, making Lancelot wonder what battle he was fighting in his head. Or maybe he dreamed of a woman. _'I hope it's the latter.'_

He pushed to his feet, pausing for a moment with his hand on the chair back as the room spun around him. It steadied soon enough, and he headed toward the door with a sigh. His head ached, his feet hurt, and the gash under his eye was throbbing. Still, he was better off than many. He had walked away from this fight. Too many others hadn't. It was really only pure, dumb luck that had saved him, anyway. A little lower, and that blade would have sliced through his throat; a little higher, and it would have taken out his eye. A scar was a small price to pay, given the alternatives.

' _Maybe the ladies will stop buzzing around you like bees at a flower,'_ Gwaine had said earlier, when Gaius had first stitched the wound. Maybe they would stop flocking around him, and maybe he'd finally get some peace and quiet at court. But they were lovely; each young woman was as fair as a summer rose in her her own way. And he couldn't pine for Guinevere forever. He could love and admire her from afar, but nothing could ever come of it. She was the queen now. She was untouchable.

But there was Elayne…

Lancelot scoffed at himself and did his best to dismiss the thoughts of the little blonde lady-in-waiting, but the memory of her blue eyes and rosebud lips wouldn't be dismissed so easily. He smiled, wincing when it pulled at his stitches. _'Don't make a fool of yourself. But maybe, when we go home...'_

" _Lancelot."_

Merlin's voice in his head was so clear, he thought the sorcerer must be right behind him. But Merlin was nowhere to be seen when he stopped to turn around. He lost his footing and stepped into a puddle. The mud pulled at his boot, making a sickening, squelching sound when he tugged it free at last. "Thanks for that," Lancelot muttered.

" _Come find me."_ The call came again, and with it a clear sense of where Merlin was. It was a strange sensation, the sudden _knowing_ , crawling up his spine like some many-legged insect. Lancelot shivered, wondering if that was how it felt to Merlin. If so, it was no surprise the sorcerer had grown so strange.

He made his way toward the northern edge of the camp, directly opposite from the tent he shared with Gwaine, but no one noticed or cared. Even the guard at the perimeter let him go without a question after his mumbled excuse of answering nature's call. He found Merlin after a short walk through the fog. It was nearly too dark to see him, the faint light brushing him in shades of grey and black except for his face, which was a pale smudge in the dark.

"Well," said Lancelot. "What are we doing here?"

"I have to tell you something," Merlin said. "But I needed privacy."

"The guards could find us and overhear."

Merlin shook his head. "No, they won't. No one will overhear us. I've made sure of it." He opened his eyes, and even their blue had been bleached to a silvery shade.

"All right, then. What is it?"

"It's about tomorrow, and the sword in the stone," Merlin said. He sagged against a tree and looked up at Lancelot. The shadows under his eyes seemed to deepen. "You've seen this sword before."

"I've never seen a sword plunged into a stone, Merlin."

"This was before it ended up there," Merlin said. "Do you remember the sword I used against Morgause's undying soldiers?"

"Yes," Lancelot said. It was hard to forget such a sword. "You said it had been burnished in a dragon's fire."

"It was the only weapon that could actually kill those soldiers," Merlin said. "Without it, we wouldn't have been able to reach the Cup of Life or break the spell over the army. A sword forged in dragonfire becomes an immortal blade, and is proof against immortal foes. It was our only chance."

"How did it end up in the stone, then? And what of the story you told?" Lancelot asked. He took a step away, an uneasy knot growing in his gut.

"It is in the stone now because I put it there, to keep it safe from unworthy hands," Merlin said. "As for the story I told, well," he almost laughed. "Pynell had his stories against Arthur, so I told one of my own. It's rooted in truth, though. I told no lies. I promised Arthur I would give him only the truth."

"Out with it, then," Lancelot said. He crossed his arms and widened his stance, as though Merlin were getting ready to run away without confessing. "The whole story of this sword."

Merlin nodded, then sank to the ground with his back against the tree as though it were the only thing holding him up. He rubbed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair before looking over at Lancelot, who had sat down, too. "It started not long after I arrived in Camelot. After you came the first time, too, but you'd gone by then. Anyway. Nimueh- a priestess of the Goddess- summoned the vengeful spirit of one of Ygraine's brothers, bringing him back as a black-armored knight to challenge Uther to a duel to the death. Other knights took up the challenge, but they had no chance against an undead opponent. They all died. And then Arthur answered the black knight's challenge." Merlin licked his lips looked away.

"He must have known it meant his death, but he loved his father," Merlin continued softly. "I tried to kill the knight, but my magic was useless against it. I was desperate to find a way to save Arthur, so I went to the library. Geoffery found a story about a different undead knight that was killed with a dragonfire forged sword, and I had my answer." He paused again and fidgeted with the laces on his gloves. "Convincing Kilgharrah to burnish the sword wasn't easy."

"Why?" Lancelot asked.

"Because a sword like that contains great power and like anything else- be it a throne or a magical artefact- in the wrong hands that power can cause great harm. I had to promise that only Arthur would ever wield the sword."

"Arthur didn't end up with it, did he?" Lancelot asked.

Merlin shook his head. "No. The morning of the duel, Uther ordered Gaius to drug Arthur so he could challenge the knight instead. When he came to the armory, I was waiting for Arthur. Uther saw the sword and asked for it. I couldn't refuse him… So Uther won the duel and tried to keep the sword. But I couldn't let him have it, so I stole it and threw it into the Lake of Avalon so no one could claim it."

"Then how did you end up with it a few years later?"

"I needed help to defeat Morgause and Morgana, so Fr- uh, the Lady of the Lake gave the sword back to me. That's where I went the night I left the camp, to the Lake of Avalon. When we won, and Camelot was safe again, I took the sword and plunged it into the stone, laying a concealing enchantment around the clearing so no one would find it. But Arthur needs it now, and he will need it in the future. When we go there in the morning, the sword will answer Arthur's call and no other's."

Lancelot sat back and tried to take it all in. There was the story, though it felt like a thousand details had been left out and parts led to other tales that Merlin wouldn't- or couldn't- go into. Tantalizing clues of the life Merlin had lived in secret, and stories that would likely stay untold forever. "And you told me all of this because I'd seen the sword up close, and you didn't want me to speak out of turn and cast doubt on your version of the story."

"Yes," Merlin said. He sagged against the tree a little more, as though the storytelling had sapped what little strength he had left. "You can tell Arthur later, or not. It's up to you. But you, of all people, had to know."

"Well," Lancelot said. He looked up through the gap in the trees to where the clouds were beginning to break up, allowing the scant moonlight to shine through. A few stars peeked through, too. Merlin was staring up at them when Lancelot glanced back at him. "I've kept your secrets before. I don't see how this one is much different. But tell me one thing."

"What?"

"You said the sword was crafted by Camelot's greatest blacksmith. Who were you talking about?"

Merlin's smile flashed like a falling star. "Gwen's father, of course. The royal smiths might have made blades that shone brighter or looked more beautiful, but none were keener or kept their edge like Tom Smith's."

"Guinevere's secret dowry," Lancelot chuckled. "Does she know what became of her father's sword?"

"No. I never told her," Merlin said distantly. His eyes were fixed on the gash under Lancelot's eye. "You're hurt," he said as he reached toward it.

"The only permanent injury is to my vanity," Lancelot said. He caught Merlin's wrist before the sorcerer could touch his face and and try to heal him. "You don't have the strength for that right now, and I don't need it anyway. I'll be fine. I don't know if I can say the same for you, though. Can you walk back to camp, or will I have to drag you there?"

"If you help me up, I think I can make it from there," Merlin said, though his grip on Lancelot's wrist told him otherwise. Still, the knight pulled him to his feet and stood close in case his knees buckled.

Several minutes passed before Lancelot was sure that Merlin wouldn't pass out on the first step. "You frighten me sometimes, you know that? What the magic does to you."

"I'm just tired is all," Merlin gave him a weak smile.

"I'm tired. We're all tired. You're the one who can barely stand," Lancelot said. "What would happen to you if there's no one around to bring you back to your senses when you're in the middle of some bloody great spell? During the fire in Camelot, when you were summoning the rain, I thought we were going to lose you."

"Don't worry about me. Fate is not finished with me, and It won't let me go until It's done," Merlin said. He didn't look at Lancelot when he said it, just kept his eyes on the ground, studying the path before him to keep from falling down.

"And what will happen when Fate is done with you?"

"I don't know." Merlin stopped to look back at Lancelot, his eyes shadowed in the darkness. "There are points in the future that I can see, and other things that are so cryptic that I couldn't begin to guess at their meaning. But for the most part, I'm as blind to the future as you are, Lancelot. Maybe I'll die in two years. Maybe you will. Or we might both live to be old, old men and slip away, quietly in our sleep. I don't know. But I do know that I have a purpose, and I mean to fulfill that purpose no matter the cost, because what Arthur will do for this land is far greater than what my little life is worth."

He stared back at Lancelot as though daring the knight to contradict him. And Lancelot held his tongue, because there was nothing that he could say that would convince Merlin he was important for himself, and not for the magic in his blood or the future he could see. That if something happened to him, _Merlin_ would be mourned and missed, not his powers. "All right, then," Lancelot said at last. "At least get some rest. Arthur will need you tomorrow with your wits intact, not passing out because you couldn't be bothered to take care of yourself."

"I'll agree with you on that," Merlin said as he turned away and started toward the camp again. "But seriously, you don't need to worry about me. I'll be fine."

"You always say that," Lancelot replied. _'And I'll always worry about you.'_


	13. Chapter 13

The day dawned gray and bleak, but with the promise of sun later on. If the clouds didn't carry through with their threats of rain before they scattered, Percival decided it would be a good day indeed.

If he could carry through with his promise to Guinevere to find a dozen good knights to send to the hinterlands to spy on an island that may or may not be crawling with enemy sorcerers. And Morgana. Though he couldn't picture her crawling anywhere. Strutting and smiting, maybe, but not crawling.

And that was part of the problem. Morgana's smiting ability, that was. A man would have to be halfway to crazy to consider volunteering for a mission like this. Especially when he was the one proposing it. He was, after all, a woodsman's son, while most of the knights of Camelot were nobly born.

He'd been informed, though, that the men he was going to talk to- the scouts and spies- were among the lesser nobles. Whatever that was supposed to mean. Maybe that made them disreputable, and if that was the case then Percival didn't think he'd mind them. There were complaints here and there amongst the courtiers that Arthur had surrounded himself with mere commoners like Gwaine and Elyan (to say nothing of what they thought about Merlin). But if Gwaine and the others were shady characters, Percival rather thought that he'd prefer to have them at his back in a fight. And Leon, too. He wasn't a bad sort, despite his nobility.

"Right, then." Percival let the door to the privy council room slam shut behind him and paused to look at the faces in front of him. Guinevere had asked for twelve. She got thirteen. "Either you lot can't count, or Camelot has a lot more brave idiots than I gave it credit for."

"That's odd," said a sandy-haired man from his spot by a pillar. "I thought the ranks of Camelot were made entirely of brave idiots."

"Aye, they are. We're just the ones who are stupid enough to volunteer for a mission we know nothing about." This from a dour man lazing in the chair Gaius normally occupied.

"Then none of you know where you're to go?" Percival asked. They all shook their heads or grunted a negative. "Good. It's meant to be a secret, unless you all want to die long, horrible deaths. Or quick and horrible ones. I'm not sure what all Morgana has up her sleeves, but it's bound to the one or the other."

"Morgana?" The sandy-haired laughed. "Are we meant to play at being assassins on a suicide mission, then?"

"I didn't think Arthur of all people would stoop to that level." There was another sandy-haired knight on the other side of the pillar. Percival did a double take before realizing that were, in fact, identical twins.

"Sir Balin and Sir Balan?" Percival had heard of them, of course, though he hadn't met them. It wasn't often that a pair of twins ended up as knights.

"Sir Balan," the first one raised a hand. "Balin's the short one."

"And you never shut your trap," the other one- Balin, apparently- scowled in his brother's direction.

"Mum did say that each man is born with a certain allotment of words he can say, and I ended up with the greater part of your share, along with mine," Balan said.

"Do you have to try to prove it every day? And you're not taller. We're the same height, you clot." Balin retorted.

"Anyway." Percival silenced them with a glare. "We got word that Morgana's not in Rheged like we thought. It seems she's in the west, on the Isle of the Blessed along with a bunch of other sorcerers, but we don't know how many there are, or what they're up to. Her Majesty wants to send a dozen of you to the Sea of Merador to find out they're doing."

"Why can't your sorcerer friend do that?" Balin asked. Or maybe it was Balan. "I thought he could see things happening far away, or even into the future?"

"So he can," Percival confirmed. "But Morgana can do the same thing. Do you think she wants Merlin poking around in her business anymore than he wants Morgana poking around his his? No. They block each other so neither can see what the other's doing. As for seeing the future?" He shrugged. "Seems like all Merlin ever sees of the future is battle and death. He doesn't care to talk about his visions."

"Is it true that Merlin can fly?" Balan- it was definitely Balan- asked. "Or that he's immortal?"

"No. He can't fly," Percival said. "And if you'd seen what happened to him at Blackheath, you'd know he can die. He's as mortal as any other man."

"Yeah, you younglings like to cling to whatever rumor you find appealing." the older knight said. "Especially when you don't know anything about it. Sorcerers might be fearsome as dragons from a distance, but if you can get close to them they bleed as well as anyone. Or didn't you learn anything about the Great Purge?"

Balan opened his mouth to say something, but Balin smacked him in the gut before he could form the words. "Dagonet has a point," Balin said. His brother punched him in the arm.

"That he does," Percival said. "But sorcerers are still dangerous. I know I wouldn't want to face Merlin on the battlefield. That's doubly true for Morgana. So with that in mind, are you willing to ride west and spy on a Priestess of the Goddess and her followers, knowing full well that they'll torture and kill you horribly if they find you?"

The older knight- Dagonet- snorted. "Every mission's full of deadly peril 'til it's done, lad." He scratched his beard and threw the twins a speculative glance. "I got back too late to go to Rheged with the army. Guess I'll be heading west with you lot. Balin and Balan, you'll go with me. It's high time I got to see if I wasted my time training you."

"Wasted your time?" Balin straightened, indignant.

"Of course you didn't waste your time," Balan interrupted. "If you thought you were wasting your time training us, you'd have sent us back to Whitebridge ages ago."

"Haven't yet," Dagonet grated. "Still could. Might take you back there and dump you off that white bridge of yours for the hassle you've put me through all this time."

The twins looked at each other, then at Dagonet. "You're hilarious," Balan said. "Really. We should get you a hat with little bells on it, and then Arthur could make you his court jester."

Percival held back a smirk. He'd met a lot of knights over the past couple of years. Some he'd liked, others he loathed, but there were few he wished he'd met ages ago. Balin, Balan, and Dagonet were doing their best to be candidates for the last list. "Right, then. I don't hear anyone complaining about where you're going, so unless you have any questions, I'll let you prepare. You've got a long way to go, and winter's not far off. Talk to the quartermaster about getting the proper supplies for it. You've got leave to requisition whatever horses you need."

"What about the sorcerers?" Balan asked, eyeing Dagonet. "What happens if they find us spying on them?"

"What did you do in the days of the Purge?" Percival asked Dagonet. The knight's salt and pepper hair and careworn face spoke of years of service to the crown. Surely that included that dark period of Camelot's history.

Dagonet narrowed his eyes. "If a band of sorcerers found us, we ran like hell. Then we'd double back, find their camp in the night, and wait for the first light of dawn to attack. We would kill the watchmen first, then fire on the lot of them with crossbows. If any were left, we put them to the sword."

A chill ran down Percival's spine at the knight's matter of fact tone. It was like he was describing to to clean a saddle, not slaughter an enemy camp. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Just keep your heads down and your eyes open. Her Majesty wants information, not heads on spikes."

"I'll bear that in mind," Dagonet said.

The twins glanced at each other in the silence that followed, then looked up at Percival. "On that happy note," Balan said, "we should start getting ready. When do you want us gone?"

"The Queen wants you to be on the shores of the Sea of Merador in a fortnight," Percival said. "If it takes you a week to a week and a half to get there, you'll have a few days to get supplied and say your good-byes."

"We should start packing, then," Balin said. "Unless you have something else to say?"

"Just to wish you good-luck. You'll probably need it." Percival relaxed his stand and stepped aside to let them file out of the room. That had gone better than he expected. They hadn't ridiculed him or ignored his- or Guinevere's- orders. Maybe it was his height. Maybe it was the fact that the orders came from the queen. Whatever it was, he needed to figure out how to carry it on into the future. If he could get it all sorted, then maybe this leadership business wouldn't be such a difficult task after all.


	14. Chapter 14

"Stop fidgeting."

Arthur wanted to tell Merlin, in no uncertain terms, that he was _not_ fidgeting. Kings didn't fidget. Fidgeting was beneath him. But that would be a lie, and Arthur knew it. And he knew that Merlin knew it, so there was no sense in saying anything about it at all.

He rolled his shoulders one last time, though. Just to be annoying.

Merlin sighed, glared at Arthur, and glanced back at Gareth. "Sometimes I wonder if the people of Camelot put the crown on the head of a very tall child."

"Isn't there a law against insulting the king?" Arthur asked.

"Nope. If there were, I would have read about it by now," Merlin said as he finished draping the heavy red cloak over Arthur's shoulders, smoothing the wrinkles out of the fabric so it would fall just so.

"If that's the case, I'll just have to come up with one," Arthur said. "What do you think the penalty for insulting royalty should be, Gareth? A half a day in the stocks? Sweeping out the royal stables?"

"You couldn't catch me in time to carry out the sentence. Now stand up straight," Merlin said. Arthur glared at him. "Don't look at me like that. You are the King of Camelot, and you are about to fulfill part of your destiny."

"I hate it when you start talking about destiny. Or Fate. It makes it sound like I'm not in control of my own life," Arthur said.

"Of course you are," Merlin said. "Instead of going to the clearing this morning and pulling the sword from the stone, you could go home instead. Or attack Urien's forces. Or do any number of things other than what you're preparing to do. I suggested a course of action last night- one that destiny, the gods, or my own good sense gave me. You chose to follow that course, and this morning you decided to stick with it. All your decisions."

"But if this is some great moment of destiny, what would happen to Fate or whatever if I did decide to go home this morning?" Arthur did his best to keep his hands at his sides and keep from pacing. He couldn't quite stop his forefinger from endlessly tapping his thumb, though.

"The timing might change, but eventually everything destiny has decreed will come to pass in one way or another," Merlin said. Perhaps it was the way the candlelight reflected in his eyes, but it seemed like the color faded for a moment. Arthur suppressed a shiver.

"I suppose we should just get on with it, then," he said. He thought he'd kept all the nervousness out of his voice, but Merlin knew him too well.

"You are the rightful King of Camelot, Arthur. Pynell can rant and rave all he wants, but that basic fact won't change. He might try to draw the sword, but it will not answer to him," Merlin said. That familiar, wise look was back on his face. "Have faith in yourself."

' _Easier said than done.'_ Arthur drew in a long breath and squared his shoulders. "All right, then. Let's get this done."

* * *

The clouds had scattered by the time they reached the clearing. The morning sun cast beams of light through the last clinging patches of mist. The leaves seemed to have finished changing overnight, turning the forest into a glittering place of beauty instead of the dark and foreboding realm it had seemed to be just the day before.

Merlin had led them there, never pausing to consider which direction to go, as though he'd been summoned. Perhaps he had been. Arthur never quite understood Merlin when he spoke of gods or fate or destiny. It felt too much like trying to capture motes of dust floating in the sunlight- you grab for one and no matter how close you get to catching it, it floats away just out of reach.

It felt unreal. The knights had fallen in place alongside or behind Arthur, with Pynell and his men trailing behind. No one spoke during the entire journey, not even Gwaine. If not for the birdsong in the trees and the steady thud of nearly a hundred men following behind him, it might have been a vision from a dream- soldiers in shining armor and crimson cloaks walking under a forest's golden boughs as they followed a single man in gray, faded as an old shadow.

They walked for a long time. Long enough that Arthur was about to draw breath to ask Merlin if he was sure this was the right way. And then they found it- the sword in the stone.

The length of the blade that wasn't buried in the stone shone like it was newly forged, freshly polished, and set into a box lined with gold, not sheathed in a cold gray rock and left for who knew how many years. Arthur had never seen such a sword before. It might have been crafted in the age of legends by some unearthly smith for the emperor of the world.

' _And I'm supposed to free it from the stone?'_ Arthur tried to quell his nerves with a deep breath. It didn't work.

"So it was true," Pynell murmured, his voice reverent for once. It didn't last long. "But what if there's some kind of trick? Some spell you cast here, in the night, when no one was watching?"

Merlin just smiled. "See for yourself, My Lord. Try to pull the sword free with your own hands. It will not answer to you."

Arthur hid his grin. Pynell wouldn't back away from a challenge any more than Arthur himself would, a fact Merlin was probably counting on.

Pynell narrowed his eyes. His jaw clenched as he bit back whatever he was about to say. Then he squared his shoulders, straightened his tunic, and walked down into the clearing. Arthur had to bit his tongue when Pynell wrapped his fingers around the sword's hilt. It felt _wrong_ , somehow, to see _that_ man with his hand on _that_ sword, like seeing someone wearing a funeral shroud at a wedding.

Pynell's knuckles went white as his grip tightened. His arm shook with the effort of pulling at the sword, but the stone held firm. The blade flexed slightly as he tugged at it, sending reflections dancing around the clearing. But otherwise, the sword didn't move.

"It's stuck fast. There's no question of that," Pynell said as he stalked back toward them, striding up to Merlin to stare down the sorcerer. "Let Arthur have his turn, then. But magic shows in the user's eyes. If you blink, we'll know this to be a lie you've conjured to deceive us all."

"Very well, then" Merlin said with a faint smile. "I'll not blink." He seemed to shine for a moment, as though his excitement couldn't be contained by his skin and was radiating into the air around him. His gaze moved away from Pynell like the man didn't exist and landed on Arthur.

For a moment, it seemed as though Merlin's high spirits had soaked into him. He turned and was halfway to the sword when the reality hit him. The sword was stuck fast in the stone. He had to pull it free. Without Merlin's magic to aid him.

His heart dropped to the ground. The sun was suddenly too hot, the light too bright. He felt dizzy, like he was seven years old again, and had snuck into his father's room one morning and found Uther's sword on its stand. It was so shiny and beautiful. It seemed to be calling out to him.

" _Arthur…"_

 _How could he not reach out for it, even if his hands were too small to wrap around the whole hilt. The sword would be his someday, when Father was gone. He only wanted to hold the blade, see how it felt. He had only ever held toy swords before._

His hand tightened around it. His heart leaped from the ground up to his throat.

It was like the damned thing recognized him.

 _And it seemed so lonely in the room all by itself, and so full of responsibility. And heavy, like the crown Father made him wear to the feasts when important guests came to talk about wars and treaties._

 _Sometimes Father made him sit beside him when he talked to the guests. "One day, you'll be the one negotiating terms of war and peace. It's best that you start learning now."_

 _But little Prince Arthur couldn't fathom all the big words, and he couldn't always tell what lands were what on the old maps they spread out on the table. It was all so far above him, and he couldn't imagine that he would ever be able to talk about such important things to these important people. So he had gone to Father's room one morning when he should have been at chapel, to see Father's sword. People told stories about this sword. They said it was special. Perhaps it held some of the answers..._

And somehow, it was like the blade knew him.

' _Arthur, have faith in yourself.'_

His hand was on the hilt of the sword, fitting there like it had been made just for him. He looked up. The clearing was strangely lit, as though it were day and night at once, lit by golden sunlight and the silvery moon. He saw his knights standing at the edges of the clearing, and Merlin with them. But they were shining, like they were lit from within with a warm and radiant light. Except for Merlin, who shone like the flashing silver of a thousand falling stars.

He looked down at the sword again. Runes ran down the length of the blade. _'Take me up',_ they read, and so Arthur did. Because it was his, after all.

He was the King of Camelot, and this was the king's sword.

Sparks flew as metal slid free from the stone, though the blade wasn't damaged by its passage. Time seemed to slow and he moved even slower within it, like a jewel sinking through honey until the sword came free from the stone. His breath caught when he held it aloft. It felt lighter than a feather, and yet stronger than the steel it had been forged from.

He lowered it, gently resting the naked blade in his gloved hand, though there couldn't possibly be a force in the world that could break such a weapon. It was a King's sword.

It was _his_ sword.

* * *

"Take me up. Cast me away." Arthur couldn't help but turn the sword around and around in his hands, studying its clean lines, impossibly sharp edges, and the runes. Especially the runes. They were etched into the blade and were nothing like he'd ever seen- deep enough that they couldn't be scratched away, but not enough to compromise the sword's strength. He knew without knowing how he knew that this sword couldn't be broken, etchings or not.

They had come back from the clearing over an hour ago, and the camp was still abuzz with the story of the sword in the stone. No doubt it would be embellished as time went on. That was what happened to events like this. The tales always grew in the telling. But the detail that amused Arthur the most was how Pynell had missed it. He had been so intent on discovering that the sword- and Arthur's ability to pull it free- was some trick of Merlin's that he had refused to look away until the deed was done.

According to Gwaine, when Pynell finally turned around to look, he had looked like a great big fish that thought it was jumping into a lovely pond, only to discover that it had found itself on the sandy shore instead.

Arthur had smirked about it for a moment, then cast aside his worries regarding Pynell. The man was laid low for the moment, and Arthur had bigger fish to fry.

And a sword to figure out. "Take me up," he said. "Cast me away. What does it mean?"

Merlin started and looked up sharply from the chair he'd been dozing in. "What?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "The runes on the sword. On one side, it says, 'take me up'. On the other side, it says, 'cast me away'."

Merlin drew in a deep breath and turned his gaze toward the tent's open door and the sunlit camp beyond. "If I had to guess, I would say a good king would know when he needs to take up his sword and use it to defend his people. Likewise, he would know when to cast it away- to set it aside in order to make peace with his enemies for the good of his people."

"And how do you know which choice is the right one?"

"Are you asking me about what you should do about Urien?" Merlin looked back at him with that wise, inscrutable look on his face. "I don't know what will happen today, or what course you will choose. What I do know is that you will face the forces of Rheged again in a battle far greater than the one we lost yesterday. But when that will happen is a mystery to me, so trying to account for today's doings in light of a mysterious future is pointless."

Merlin leaned forward, hands clasped, and elbows on his knees. "Urien made his move yesterday, and now he waits for you to make yours. Will you fight back and risk this turning into a war that will linger on through the winter? Or will you sue for peace, and hope that Urien doesn't break his word and stab you in the back later on?"

"Those are both very real possibilities," Arthur said.

"They are," Merlin agreed. "And there is a chance- however small- that you could make peace with Urien, and he would keep his word. But that decision is yours. I can't make it for you."

"What good are you, then," Arthur quipped.

Merlin chuckled, taking the remark for the joke that it was. "I try to be useful on occasion. This probably isn't one of those times."

"It's a possibility," Arthur said, smirking. He looked back down at the sword. The runes reading, 'take me up' faced him. He turned the blade over so it read, 'cast me away'. Then turned it again, and again.

He looked out the door as a pair of knights passed by. They were laughing, their troubles forgotten for a moment. Beyond that, Arthur heard the ruckus of a camp readying for war- the clack of weapons against shields as the soldiers practiced, farriers re-shoeing horses, cooks attempting to make the midday meal, and all the rest of the noise and chatter that went along with it.

Arthur looked down at the sword he'd been turning in his hands.

' _Take me up.'_

Merlin was right. He was risking a lot, no matter what course of action he pursued. All he needed to do was to decide which course had the fewest consequences for his people.

Arthur walked toward the door, pausing at the threshold and turning the sword over and over in his hands. He looked down at it again.

' _Cast me away.'_

Every possibility seemed bright on a day like this. And every possibility seemed doomed to failure.

Arthur reached for his sword belt. Though this new blade was slightly longer and narrower than his father's heavier sword, the scabbard fit the new one perfectly. Like they had been made for each other. He glanced down at the runes one last time, and made his decision.


	15. Chapter 15

"This treaty won't hold forever, but it should keep the peace between Camelot and Rheged until the spring. Perhaps even into summer." Arthur unrolled the parchment and weighted the edges down before stepping aside so Guinevere and the other councilors could read it.

Guinevere smiled up at him, but made a tiny shooing gesture with her fingers. Arthur had given her enough space, he thought, but it was more likely she objected to the lingering scent of horse, along with the mud and road dust still clinging to him. After three days of negotiations with Urien and a few more days on the road home, Arthur, Merlin and the knights had finished the last leg of the journey with half a day's hard ride. Just then, all he wanted to do was have a bath, a hot meal, and to hold Guinevere for the rest of the day- and not necessarily in that order.

But he had duties to attend to, and assuring the people of Camelot that their lands were not under attack came before his own wishes. He suspected that Guinevere would demand that he take a bath before he came near her again. The knights seemed to the in the same boat- the ones with sweethearts, anyway. Linnet wouldn't go near Gwaine, staying glued to Niniane's side. Even Elayne looked askance at them, keeping her eyes on the queen instead of on Lancelot.

' _Such sacrifices we make.'_ He smirked, and Guinevere gave him a questioning look.

"How do you know this will hold through the winter?" she asked.

"Urien is untrustworthy, but he's not stupid," Leon chimed in. "The weather in those mountains is brutal in the winter. He might be able to claim higher ground there, but if Camelot's forces stayed in the valleys below, they would have the advantage simply because of favorable winds and weather."

"The Sarrum wasn't stupid, and he attacked a mountain stronghold in the winter," Guinevere pointed out.

"Yes, but he had Morgana with... him…" Leon's counterpoint trailed off as he realized that Morgana was Urien's ally, just as she had been the Sarrum's.

Guinevere smiled at him. "Fortunately, she won't have the element of surprise, since we know they have an alliance."

"And she doesn't have the same… tools that she had last winter," Arthur added darkly, sparing a glance for Merlin, who hung back in the shadows as usual. The sorcerer hadn't heard him, though. He had a distracted look on his face, and was staring at Niniane. She stared back at him.

Young love, perhaps. Though it looked like there was some darker conversation being carried out between them, and not just the lovesick glances of young courtiers. Arthur envied them for a moment, and their ability to converse without needing to speak. But Merlin had told him time and time again that such gifts came with a cost, and that those costs weren't always easy to bear.

"We have no perfect guarantee that Urien will keep this treaty," Arthur said, "just as we can't guarantee that his sons will abide by it. He may allow them to do as they will, and meanwhile he'll sit in his castle and pretend that he's keeping his word. But every day that he doesn't attack is one more we'll have to prepare for that eventuality. Because that day _is_ coming, and when it does we must be ready for it."

"And what do you plan to do about Pynell?" Drusilla asked with a raised brow as she finished perusing the treaty. "He has some bit of mischief in mind, especially with this story of yours about a sword in a stone, and how he tried to incite a revolt against you. He ought to be hanged for that."

Arthur was nearly head and shoulders above Drusilla these days, but the disapproving look she shot him made him feel like he was ten years old again.

"There's no crime in telling stories about the olden days," Merlin said. "From what I heard, that was all Pynell was doing- talking about the days of Uther's reign. He insinuated, used double-talk, and let his audience come to its own conclusion. But nothing he said was outright treason. He was careful about it."

"And surely it would require more than angry campfire rumors to condemn a man," Guinevere added.

"They are right, My Lady," said Geoffrey. "If treason had been committed, we would need far more evidence to convict him."

Drusilla shot the librarian a withering look, but she had to concede the point. "Very well, then. I appears we have to let him continue to conspire against you. But what do you intend to do about that? Your agent is injured and likely to be bedridden for some time, and anyone you send to watch over Pynell will fall under suspicion as a spy."

"I had given thought to that," Arthur said. He looked over at Merlin and opened his mouth to speak.

Merlin cut him off. "You want me to scry on him, don't you?"

"The thought had occurred."

Merlin shook his head. "No."

"No?"

"No," Merlin repeated. "Think what would happen if I did, and news of it got around to the people? Because this sort of thing would make its way to unfriendly ears. If the people heard that I spied on Urien or Carleon, they wouldn't mind. Spying on foreign kings is almost expected. But if they heard I was spying on one of Camelot's high lords, and that I was doing so by your order, what would they do then? Rise up and revolt? Plot to murder me, and perhaps you as well?" He folded his arms in front of him, his gaze unwavering when it locked onto Arthur's.

"The people wouldn't mind if I spied on Camelot's enemies," Merlin continued, "but they don't know that Pynell is your enemy. He's too careful for that. If word spread that I was spying on him, they'd wonder if I was spying on them, too. They would wonder if they were being watched, and that would make them angry and afraid. It would play right into Pynell's plans, and perhaps accelerate some of them." He gave Arthur a helpless shrug. "I know it seems like an easy solution, but situations like this don't allow for simple answers."

"You're probably right," Arthur said. He drummed his fingers on the table, picturing the map of Camelot in his mind while he pondered his next move. "Drusilla?"

"Yes, Arthur?"

"How are relations between Lord and Lady Pynell?"

She clasped her hands together, brows rising at the left turn the conversation had made. "Frosty, at best. He's not been home to Highwood Keep for the better part of two years now, though their marriage was always more of a business arrangement than a love match. But they did their duties by each other- he provided her with children, and she gave him an heir. Now they leave each other own. He stays here in Camelot to be treacherous, and she minds his household. Quite well, from all that I've heard."

"And his eldest-it's Erec, isn't it- how old is he now?"

"Nearly fifteen, I believe," Drusilla said.

"Then it's high time he came to court," Arthur said. "With Gareth's father's reign so uncertain, he needs to spend more time studying statecraft and diplomacy, and less time polishing armor. And it's high time that Erec came to court. Especially if he intends to be a knight someday."

"And put another hostage to fortune under our care?" Guinevere asked archly.

"Gareth isn't doing so poorly, though he's likely to eat us out of house and home if he doesn't stop growing," Arthur said.

"He'll eat everything in sight, even if he's not growing. That's the nature of young men," Drusilla said. She directed a level stare at Arthur. "And what do you propose to do about Pynell himself? Even if you _do_ have his eldest son in your custody, I doubt he'll stop scheming."

"No, he won't," Arthur agreed. "That's why I'm going to send him back to Tintagel. It's Camelot's sole port, and the only reason we've held it this past year is because it's half in ruins and no one wants to put the effort into taking it and rebuilding. I'm going to task him with shoring up the defenses there against the Saxons. They won't care if it's falling apart if it gives them a place to land." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Merlin shudder. But when he looked the the sorcerer, Merlin just waved him off.

"It'll keep him busy, at least," Leon said.

"And force his loyalty for the time being," Arthur said. "If he fails to defend the keep, then he and his men will die and southern Camelot will be open to attack from the sea. Even Pynell isn't treacherous enough to allow that."

"For the time being," Drusilla added darkly. "Will you send someone to keep an eye on him?"

"Two or three someones," Arthur nodded. "Though I don't know who yet."

"I'll go." Elyan stepped forward, his shoulders squared and his chin up.

"What?" Guinevere's eyes widened. "You can't! You're my brother. They'll know you're reporting back to Arthur, and it wouldn't surprise me if they tried to kill you and passed it off as an accident. You'd be too far from home for anyone to protect you."

Elyan gave his sister a fond smile. "Gwen, I took care of myself for a long time before I came to Camelot. And the fact that I'm your brother means they'd be watching me too closely to notice the other two men you send with Lord Pynell's troops."

"One is obvious, one is not no obvious, and the third is invisible," Arthur said. "They'll suspect a second agent and be looking for him, but they wouldn't be suspecting a third one." Or a fourth or a fifth. If he had his way, Arthur would be stuffing Pynell's entourage full of his own agents. It hadn't seemed like such a pressing issue even a month ago. "And it would be best if none of you knew the others' names, just in case."

Guinevere's eyes widened even more at the exchange between Arthur and Elyan. "You're not serious about this, are you? They'll kill him once they're out of sight of Camelot's walls."

"The fact that he's your brother will lend him some protection," Arthur said, though he knew it wouldn't appease her. "He won't want to risk my displeasure with such an attack. I'll think about the rest of it. Right now, I'd like to have a hot meal for the first time in days and wash the road dust off. Leon, stay a moment. The rest of you may go."

There were sighs of relief at the dismissal. The only ones who hesitated were Merlin and Guinevere. She was caught between wanting to stay with Arthur and leaving to harangue her brother for volunteering for such a dangerous mission. Familial loyalty won out, and from the set of her jaw, he was glad that he wouldn't be on the receiving end of her temper. Yet.

Merlin stayed because he always did.

' _Go,'_ Arthur mouthed, nodding to the doorway where Niniane still lurked, waiting.

For a moment, Merlin looked like he was going to protest. Then he stopped, closed his eyes and chuckled. He might have blushed, too, but he was out the door with Niniane before Arthur could say for sure.

"Alright, then," Leon said when the doors had closed. "What impossible task do you have for me this time?"

"I want you to go with Pynell to Tintagel and do what Elyan can't. Get close to Pynell. Find out what he's planning. Tintagel is going to be a critical outpost soon enough. I won't leave its defense to a man I can't trust. He'll know this, and he'll know why you're there. Keep Elyan as your right hand man if you can, and take what members of your own household you feel necessary. You will liaison with the lords of the Eastern Marches. They know you, and they know your place in this court. Watch them. If their loyalty waver, send word at once."

Leon heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Oh, is that all?"

Arthur couldn't help but laugh. Poor Leon. Of all the knights, Arthur asked the most of him, whether it was leading the men in battle or accomplishing one delicate political move or another. "Yes, that's all. You know I only ask this of you because you're well capable of it. You've never failed me before, even when the task was impossible."

"Are you going to ask me to move heaven and earth for you next?"

"I might," Arthur said, clapping Leon on the shoulder and directing him toward the door. "Bring me a list of agents you want to take with you. Only the best, mind you. They'll be far from home, and there will be no helping them if they're caught."

"Just like there will no helping Elyan or I if we're not careful," Leon said.

"And there will be no help for Camelot if Pynell has his way," Arthur replied. "What happens in the coming months will be critical to our future. If we fail, all of Camelot will fall with us."

* * *

 _A/N: Apologies for the delay in updating. I was frantically working on finishing another (long overdue) writing project. Thank you for your patience!_


	16. Chapter 16

"Promise me you'll be careful."

Elyan might have laughed at Gwen's hundredth or so request in the past fortnight for him to be careful, but she looked so distraught that he couldn't manage even the slightest smirk. "I will be very careful. I will watch out for sticks and stones, and keep a weather eye out for assassins in the dark."

That brought a watery smile out of hiding. And a smack on the chest, though it hurt her more than him, since he was wearing armor. "Don't make fun. You're the only family I have left, Elyan. I don't know what I'd do if I lost you."

"First of all, I'm not your only family. You have a husband, after all, and friends who love you almost as much as I do." Elyan wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into the embrace, resting her head against his chest. "And secondly, in the unlikely circumstance that I am horribly killed, you will carry on without me just like you did after I left home. You were always the best of us, anyway."

"Don't say that. I'm not better than you are, and you are _not_ going to be horribly killed." She pulled away from him and glared up at him. "Do you hear me? You can't die. I forbid it."

Elyan grinned. "As my queen commands. Is there another part of this royal decree?"

Gwen almost smiled again. "Yes. Keep Leon safe. Arthur needs him more than he'd admit it."

"I'll keep Leon safe, too." Elyan kissed her on the cheek, then turned to collect his horse's reins from the stableboy. "We're not going alone, you know. Half of Leon's household guard is going with us, along with about fifty knights that Arthur chose himself." He gestured at the other knights and men who were going along to Tintagel.

"I know. But it doesn't make me worry any less." Gwen adjusted the woollen cloak draped over her shoulders and let out a long sigh. "I wish this world of ours wasn't so dangerous. It used to be simpler, you know."

"Yes, it was simpler when we were children," Elyan said. "But that's the price of growing up."

"Unfortunately. Wouldn't it be nice if we could be innocent again?"

"Then who would run the kingdom?" Elyan laughed and hugged her one last time. Leon had finished speaking with Arthur, and both of them were headed toward the siblings.

"Are you ready?" Leon asked.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Elyan replied.

"And you both have them?" Arthur asked, referring to the charms that would let them summon Merlin's birds to send reports back and forth between Camelot and Tintagel.

"I have mine," Leon said. Elyan nodded his agreement.

"Good," Arthur said, lowering his voice so what he said couldn't be heard more than a pace away. "I don't expect to hear from you every week, but I want a reports from each of you as often as you can manage it. What you send will be critical, since the others won't have access to the birds."

"We'll do our best," Elyan said.

"I know you will," Arthur said. He took Gwen's hand and guided her a few steps away so Elyan could mount up. "And be careful, both of you."

Elyan had to laugh, and so did Gwen. "We will."

Arthur raised an eyebrow at their smiles, but didn't ask about them. "Good luck to you, then. And Godspeed."

* * *

"Emrys?"

Merlin glanced away from the window at the sound of Niniane's voice. He smiled and wrapped an am around her waist, pulling her close before resuming his watch. "They're leaving soon. Once they're gone, I won't be able to watch over them anymore. They'll be at Pynell's mercy."

"I wouldn't say that," Niniane said. "You make it sound like they're babes in the woods, all helpless and hopeless. Leon and Elyan are a lot cleverer than you give them credit for." She rested her head against his chest. "They'll be alright."

"Have you Seen that?" Merlin asked. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of her hair- honey and roses, and underneath that was a trace of forget-me-nots. It sparked an unwanted memory, and he shoved it away.

"No more than you have," she said, her hands over his. "But they're perfectly capable of taking care of themselves, you know. You aren't be responsible for every single soul in Camelot, no matter how much you think you are."

"I'm not?" he said, letting a bit of amusement color his voice. "And all this time I thought I was."

"No. It seems you've let all your power go to your head," Niniane said. "I'd say something bad about you to try to bring you back down to earth, but I just can't think of anything."

"Tell Arthur, then. He'll be able to come up with a hundred of my faults."

"Surely not," Niniane said. "I don't think you have even one fault. And if there is one, it must be so minor that it doesn't even matter that it's there."

"And you were trying to find something to make me a more humble man," Merlin chuckled and hugged her tightly.

"No one's perfect," she said.

They fell silent then, watching from above as the men mounted up and prepared to head out. Pynell was at the head of the column, with Leon only a little behind him. Elyan rode far behind them, lost in the mess of knights, soldiers, and the various other people an army relied on to keep itself fed and supplied. It would take the assembly the better part of an hour to clear the gates.

"How long do you think they'll be gone?" Niniane asked.

"Probably through the winter," Merlin said. "Once the snows and rains set in, they won't be able to travel very well. They'll be stuck at Tintagel."

"I can think of worse places to spend the winter," Niniane said. "Amata, for one. The reaches of the White Mountains, or Highwood Keep. Rheged. Nemeth is nice every time of year, but I can think of a few places I'd rather be when it's cold."

"Which places are those?"

Niniane turned around and wrapped her arms around his neck before rising up on tiptoes to steal a kiss from him. "Right here, for one," she said as she nestled against him, her head against his chest.

Merlin closed his eyes and smiled, basking in the warmth of the moment. This didn't happen nearly often enough for his taste, when he and Niniane were alone together with nothing in the world conspiring to interrupt their happiness. _'I wouldn't mind spending winter right here, either.'_

She laughed he, and he blushed. He hadn't meant to tell her that. _'Do you think we'll be able to find more time for ourselves, then, when kings and nobles aren't so determined to spend their days fighting?'_

' _Maybe. But if there isn't fighting going on, then someone is sick, or Arthur wants to go hunting, or we're negotiating something.'_

' _Are you saying that the whole world conspires to keep us from having time alone together?'_

' _It might be.'_

Niniane poked him in the ribs. _'You are Emrys. You have the power of the storm and the ability to walk outside of time. Surely you, of all people, can steal an hour for the two of us.'_

"I will bend all my thought to it, then." Merlin grinned and hugged her tightly. "I will become a thief of time and steal hours from the day to give them to the night, and no one but us will be the wiser."

"But where will be go?" She tilted her head back to look up at him, her green eyes sparkling. _'I love the forest as much as anyone else, but snow and ice make certain… activities uncomfortable.'_

' _Extra hours in the day and hidden places for just the two of us. Now you're asking the world of me.'_

' _Not for the world, Emrys. I'm just asking for you.'_ Niniane smiled up at him, and for a moment Merlin would have brought her the sun and the stars if she'd asked for them. But all she was asking for was his company, such as it was.

' _Then I will steal time for you, and find some hidden place for us to wile away our stolen hours. Will that do?'_

' _I think it would be enough,'_ she laughed.

"Niniane!" Linnet's voice echoed down the hallway. She stood, a hand on her hip, a dozen paces ahead of Gwen and Arthur. "We're summoned."

Merlin's cheeks burned, and he would have sworn that Niniane's did, too. For once. "It looks like you're the one with all the duties now."

"So it would seem," she said, giving him a last kiss on the cheek before hurrying away to join Linnet. He couldn't help but watch her go, his attention too focused on the swing of her skirts and the way the light fell on her dark hair to notice Arthur walking up to him.

"Something on your mind?" Arthur asked. He clapped Merlin on the shoulder and shook him a little, the way a dog might shake a favorite toy when inviting its master to play.

"Just thinking about how much of a prat you are."

"I'm sure that fills your every waking thought." Arthur rolled his eyes and dropped his hand back to his side. "The privy council meets in an hour. I want you there."

"Of course you do," Merlin sighed. "I may be late, though. Gaius isn't feeling well, so I'm seeing to his patients until he's back on his feet." The old physician's cough hadn't improved since they'd gotten home. It was persistent enough that Gaius was actually listening to Merlin when he told him to rest.

"Off you go, then. Don't keep us waiting long, or you'll have Drusilla to answer to, as well as me," Arthur said. He gave Merlin a sidelong glance, then smiled, his gaze turning back to where Niniane and Linnet had disappeared around a corner. "She's good for you, you know," he said, clapping Merlin on the shoulder again before he, too, headed away down the hall.

"If I only had some time to be with her," he muttered. Then he sighed, shook his head, and returned to his duties.

* * *

Night had fallen by the time the council meeting ended. Arthur was ready to pull his hair out by the roots when it was finally over. No conclusions had been drawn, no arguments had been resolved, and over all it felt like it had been a waste of time. Other, clearer minds would likely find some use in the hours of talking he had just endured, but all Arthur wanted to do now was eat supper, drink a cup of mulled wine, and go to bed.

But first, he needed to ask a certain Druid girl a few questions.

There had been an itch in the back of his mind ever since the night of their defeat on the border, a faint sensation that something was wrong, but he wasn't quite sure what. And he certainly hadn't know what to do about it. Since they'd gotten home, though, he'd been able to suss out the source of that mental itch.

"Niniane, stay a moment," he said. The others looked back at him with questions in their eyes- especially Merlin. No doubt they thought he wanted to ask her about the Druids or something like that.

"Majesty," she said, dropping a graceful curtsey. She'd been practicing the motion, apparently, since she didn't look like she was about to fall over.

Arthur waited until they were alone, and the echoes of the doors' closing had faded. "Do you know the name of Accolon?"

Niniane's brow furrowed. "He is a prince in Rheged. Second in line for King Urien's throne, I believe."

"He is." Arthur tapped a finger on the arm of his chair. "He's also betrothed to Morgana."

"I'd heard that, as well, Sire." Niniane clasped her hands in front of her and shifted nervously. Arthur let her stew for a moment while he studied her. She was a little thing, not quite as tall as Guinevere and slender as a willow wand. With her sharp features, pale skin, and wide eyes, she was certainly of a kind with Merlin.

"He and I spoke briefly on the battlefield. He was taunting me, anyway, and he spoke of you," Arthur said.

Niniane's head came up, her eyes widening in surprise. "Why?"

"I was hoping you might know."

"N-no, Sire! I've never been to Rheged, nor I have I ever seen either Accolan or Morgana. I swear it!" Her face had gone even whiter. "My presence here in Camelot isn't a secret, but I don't know why a man like Accolon would speak of me, or even recognize my existence. You must believe me, Sire!"

Arthur raised a placating hand. "I do. But I still feel like I should ask what your intentions toward Merlin are." He suddenly felt like an old, old man trying to put some wily youth back on the straight and narrow path, and wondered if someday he might be asking some young man the same question about his own daughter.

She gave him a long and searching look, and then her green eyes narrowed. "So because Morgana's betrothed mentioned me, you think I mean to harm Merlin, don't you?"

"There are many who would," Arthur said softly.

"I am not one of them." She straightened and gathered her indignance around herself like a cloak. "Merlin means everything to my people, Sire. He is the very best of men. I could never harm him. Don't you see? I love him, and I believe he loves me."

He looked for the lie in her eyes and found none. The tension left his shoulders, and he felt like he could breathe easier. Perhaps there had been nothing to Accolon's taunts after all. "I believe you," Arthur said at last. "But he has been hurt so many times by so many people. Even by those who should have protected him. I don't want any harm to come to him."

Niniane's expression softened. A sad smile tugged at her lips. "I couldn't bring myself to break his heart any more than you could, Sire."

Arthur looked away. "I'm sure," he said softly. "You may go then. Have a good evening, Niniane." He barely noticed her curtsey or her whispered, _'Majesty',_ as lost in thought at he was. He remembered the harsh words he'd said against magic, the insults, and all the other foolish things he had thoughtlessly done that must have hurt Merlin, but before and after Arthur found out about the magic. _'Perhaps you wouldn't break his heart, but I fear I already have. Many times.'_

* * *

Far away, through forests, over mountains, and across the wide plains, three men waited by the shores of a narrow sea. A gloomy evening had turned into an even darker night as they made a cold camp inside a ruined settlement. Only the occasional shaft of pale moonlight broke through the clouds, the reflections creating a wavering trail across the water to the broken city on the Isle of the Blessed.

"What I wouldn't give to be a bat right now. They might be blind, but at least they don't run into things." Balan's voice wasn't above a whispered grumble, but it carried far in the quiet.

"Hush now," Dagonet shushed him. Save for the faint crunching of sand and gravel underfoot, the three of them made no sound, though the silence was broken by other noises. The lapping of the waves against the shore; the wind rushing through the ruins; the far away screeching of some great beast. Those sounds worried Dagonet the most. They didn't come from ground level, but from the air; and they moved too quickly to be some beast running about on foot.

Dagonet shivered. He hadn't been a part of the force that attacked the Isle of the Blessed all those years ago, but he had heard the stories from the survivors. Tales of great beasts raining destruction from the air, or the fires that rose up from the waters as the last of the Goddess's servants fought to defend their stronghold. Then there were the men driven mad by the terror of what they saw when they reached the castle on the Isle, when the last Priestess unleashed her final spells of fire and death and insanity before she vanished before their eyes.

King Uther had declared it to be a great victory, but after Dagonet had looked into his brother's vacant eyes and watched the man slowly whither away and die, he decided it had been a hollow victory at best.

And now magic had returned to the heart of Camelot. What had it all been for?

Dagonet blew out a sharp breath and walked toward the water, his steps all but silent. He sensed more than saw one of the twins looking at him. In the gloom, he couldn't tell which one it was.

"What are we even watching for?" It was probably Balan who asked. "We've been here most of a week, and the only soul we've seen is that old boatman, going back and forth with no passengers. There's no one else here."

"They're here," Dagonet whispered. "After all these years, they've learned well how to hide themselves. They won't show themselves 'til they're ready."

"And how will we know that?"

"In the old days," Dagonet murmured, "they kept a light in the highest tower. The witches claimed it was a symbol. They said the ever-burning fire meant that the light of knowledge could never be extinguished, and that it served as a beacon and a guide for all those who could see it." He kept his gaze fixed on the old castle's black mass. "For all the good it did them in the end. Uther himself went up to that tower and cast the light into the sea."

"What do you think it meant?" That was likely Balan again. He had always been more introspective than his brother.

"What I think of it doesn't matter. The queen gave us this task, and I intend to do it."

They all fell silent. Across the water, the beasts screeched again. The sound sent chills crawling down Dagonet's spine, but he kept still. No need to let the boys know how it unnerved him.

"I just wish there was something to look at," Balin griped under his breath. It must have been Balin, because Balan had been to Dagonet's right. "The darkest pits of Hell must be brighter than this."

' _And wamer.'_ He shivered as a gust of cold wind rose up from over the water. "Be patient, lad," Dagonet whispered. "When the time comes, you'll have plenty to look at. And none of it good."

* * *

"Are you ready, My Lady?"

Morgana didn't answer Yver's question. She crossed the long room instead to look out the window over the old city. Though she had hidden the lights from the prying eyes watching from the shore, the people had kept their fires small anyway. A quarter-century's habits died slowly, even if a Priestess's spells and a clutch of wyverns conspired to keep them safe.

There were more than five hundred of them now, magic users of varying strengths and skills from Yver's remaining warriors to the herbalists and midwives who had but the faintest spark of healing ability. They were all hers to command.

And hers to protect, as well.

"I swore an oath to the Goddess once, that I would not rest until the throne of Camelot was mine." Morgana clutched at her cloak. The chill she felt wasn't entirely due to the wind blowing in through the window. "I don't think I will ever achieve that, though. Not so long as Merlin lives. He is always standing in my way, and I…. I cannot defeat him."

Yver walked toward her, his steps echoing through the room. "Are you afraid She will turn Her back on you because you've failed to keep your oath?"

"Wouldn't you be?"

He was silent for a while, then drew in a rasping breath. "I think that the Goddess would be pleased to see Her people return to Isle of the Blessed, and to see the light shining from the high tower again. I would hope that She has seen the work you have done in Her name and would forgive you for not fulfilling your oath. Our people will be safe here"

Morgana ran her hand across the window sill's smooth stone. Her fingertips came away black with old soot. "They thought they were safe in Uther's day, too. But he burned them all the same."

"So he did. But at the risk of sounding like an apologist for your brother, I would have to say that Arthur is not Uther." Yver took another few steps toward her, until she could reach out and touch him. "He has other things to worry about than some magic-using families huddled on an island far from his city."

"That could change," Morgana said.

"And that is why you must bring the light back to the tower, My Lady. To gather our people here, where we can build our strength and defend ourselves," Yver said. "Arthur may not be persecuting us, but others still do."

"Yes," she said, her eyes still on the twinkling lights of the settlement below. The people had come to the Isle in all states of desperation, all of them looking for some kind of peace and distance from their pursuers. "Then I suppose I know what I must do."

Morgana turned abruptly and returned to the table where the lantern sat, taking it in one hand and striding toward the door.

The walk to the high tower was a long and winding one, marked by darkness, wind, and patches of crumbling stone underfoot. She kept going, in spite of all that. She knew the way forward as though she had been treading this path since birth, though she had never dared to go this far. Perhaps the Goddess approved, and was showing her the way.

Morgana was nearly out of breath by the time she reached the room atop the high tower, though she had slowed her pace on the last, narrow spiral staircase. There were windows at each of the cardinal directions, wide openings meant to let the light shine all around so it might been seen far away. It surprised her, given Uther's destructive tendencies, that the lacy stonework had survived. But it had, and so the room was still lovely. If it were daytime, she'd be able to see the sea all around the Isle, as well as the city in all is ruined beauty.

In the center of the room stood a table of carven stone, obviously meant to hold the lantern Morgana held in her hand. She placed in in the center and stepped back until she was at the top of the stairs. _"Leoht."_

A light flared to life in the lantern and grew slowly brighter, strengthened by the enchantments laid into the room's design. She watched it until it was too strong to look at. Then she retraced her steps downward, pausing at another, lower window that looked out over the city. As the light in the tower grew, it broke through the concealing enchantment to reveal the little fires in the settlement.

"Now they can see us. Now they will know that a High Priestess has reclaimed her seat on the Isle of the Blessed."

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you to everyone who has favorited, followed, and commented on this story! I truly appreciate it! Also, thank you for being patient. This story took much longer to finish than I had anticipated, so thanks for sticking around for it!_

 _It's going to be a bit until the next story in this series, as I have another writing project to work on, so keep a weather eye out for it! It will be titled, 'A Song for Midwinter'. Until then, if you have any requests for missing scenes you'd like to see, please let me know!_


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